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lilianne-tarot · 28 days ago

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Pick a card: What do they secretly simp over when they fall for you ⋆˙⟡

This PAC is about how the people who admire you and crush on you, love the most about you. The qualities, personality traits, or anything else. Everything is there here, I hope yall enjoy reading this!! <3

✧˚. How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, the order of the image is 1 to 3 from left to right. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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‧ ₊ ˚ ✧ PILE 1 ‎✧ ˚ ₊ ‧

Welcomeee my dear reader of pile 1!!! Let me tell you something, Pile 1, the way y’all unintentionally snatch hearts out here is not fair 😭💀. You catch people’s eyes so easily, like, without even trying. And it happens the most when you're just… being your purely unapologetic self. No forced perfection, no seeking validation, no “do I look okay?” energy. Just you in your own world. THAT’S when the spotlight shines on you and your admirers suddenly forget how to breathe. It happens a lot, trust me, and with many of them (Not kidding, I literally took a deep breath while writing this because that’s how intense your energy felt 😭.)BUT, y'all are also the type to zone out very easily.

Your eyes, babygirl… ooooofff. They radiate like lasers, not the dangerous kind, the kind that pierce right through someone’s heart and leave a permanent mark. People don’t just see you, they feel you. They remember you. You're the kind of person who makes tarot readers like me throw my cards in the air and yell, “Y’ALL DON’T KNOW YOUR POWER 😩🔥.” Because you don’t. But you need to.

Shadow work is screaming your name rn. Like, it came through LOUDLY, even in a love-focused reading. YKW. YALL DO SOME SHADOW WORK ASAPPP. TAKE MY DAMN ADVICE. NOW. Y'all have no idea how much this would elevate your presence. Just look through what kind of shadow work you exactly need. If i had to suggest something that would generally suit most people of this pile that i would suggest shadow work for leo traits cuz damn the amonut of yellow and orange i saw here is insane. And the first thing I heard from the universe was that y'all need to do some shadow work. DO IT.

Coming back to your secret admirers, these poor souls are really trying their best to impress you. They know they’re not just dealing with “a crush.” You’re Top tier in their eyes. Their self-awareness skyrockets around you. They’re not delulu anymore, just down bad 🫡. It’s like someone walks into a room, sees you and suddenly their inner monologue switches to: “How do I become worthy of this goddess?” No joke. What’s SO special about this pile is that your admirers aren’t just thirsting after you. They’re rooting for your happiness. Like genuinely. When you smile, their heart just calms down. When you’re glowing? They feel like the sun has just risen. No in-and-out, no confusion. When people fall for you, they fall hard and purely. Like that “I’d walk to the ends of the Earth if you needed milk” kind of love 😭.

AHHH THIS PILE IS SO WHOLESOME MY HEART CAN’T TOELRATE THIS😭 these people want to always nurture you and protect that zeal and infectious positivity you have. I'm reminded of one edit of “The Summer I Turned Pretty” where Belly says. “MY boyfriend, MY jeremiah” with wanna be yours by Arctic Monkeys plays in the background. Like THAT’S the vibe. That’s the kind of energy or whole scenario that goes through your admirer's mind when they think of you. BUT BUT BUT, YOU are *THE* CONRAD of their life, “everywhere I go, there's a memory of Conrad”( belly's words btw), you're The one they never forget. The one who leaves traces of their existence in every corner of their memory. Every place they go, every random moment, they see something that reminds them of you. You’re not just a person. You’re a feeling. (I'll stop with my tsitp rant here)

And yes, even the ones who are like, “Ugh, I don’t believe in love” yeah, them too. Even they catch themselves picturing a cozy little future with you. You spark this strange but beautiful kind of chivalry in them. They wanna step up. Be better. Match your level. They’d rather work their asses off to be someone who could actually sit beside you and feel worthy, instead of just fantasizing forever. You radiate stability and class, while simultaneously being that distant dream they hope to one day reach. They’re constantly imagining “what if” scenarios. Like literally, someone out there probably thinks about you while washing dishes, daydreaming about what it would be like to talk about your future house, your dogs, your chaotic love language, all of it. Even if they don’t believe in “happily ever after,” they want one with you. LET ME INTERRUPT WITH THIS: You may sometimes think, “Why doesn’t anyone ever fall for me like THAT?” Bestie. Stop right there. People DO fall for you, they just assume they don’t stand a chance. You're not seen as someone people wanna “hook up with for fun.” You’re seen as the person they’re not good enough for. And honestly, that’s their own mental block. “Your lips say nothing, but your eyes say everything.”

Your introversion, your peace, your love for personal space, those are the exact things that make people fall in love at first sight. For this, yall can also say that generally the people who fall for you are either introverts, call toppers, or someone who is very ambitious about their goals. But when it comes to you, it’s like they stumble across you and they fall for you in a heartbeat. It’s not logical. It’s emotional, magnetic, and instantaneous. They don’t even know what hit them. You just walked in their life, and suddenly, they’re not the same. You aren’t the type of person people “decide” to like. You’re the type people wake up realizing they’re in love with. Like… “How the hell did I end up here??” One minute you're just someone they saw across a room, next minute they’re rearranging their entire schedule to walk past your desk.When people fall for you, something inside them shifts. Like a switch flips. They’re suddenly motivated to grow. To evolve. You walk into their lives, and without doing anything, you make them question who they are and who they could become. Powerful stuff.

You are not the loudest in the room, but you're the one they remembers. You’re the paragraph they reread. The softness that lingers. The reason someone started working harder, healing deeper, or dreaming bigger. So if you’ve ever doubted yourself, this is your confirmation: you are admired, adored, and loved far more than you know.

They don’t just fall for you, Pile 1. They never recover from it. ✨

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‧ ₊ ˚ ✧ PILE 2 ‎✧ ˚ ₊ ‧

Welcomeee my dear reader of pile 2!!! Before I even pulled the cards, I got this strongggg feeling that y’all Pile 2 attract the most corny ahh and kinda thirsty type of people 😭. Like yes, some of them are probs horny on main, but also They’re so cringe in the best way possible. The kind of cringe that makes life fun and gives you butterflies but also icks you out a little bit (don’t lie, you know what I’m talking about 💀) And flirting??? BABY. It’s IMBEDDED in the way people crush on you. Whether it’s intentional or accidental, your dynamic with your admirers is mostly a little cheeky LMAO. You’re probably out here being a flirt. It could be intentional or unintentional. Knowingly or unknowingly (or maybe you know...). It’s not “admiration from afar” vibes with you, no, no. Your admirers are mostly mutual friends, friend-of-a-friend, people online or even your close friends. For a lot of y’all, these crushes actually end up getting confessed, like we’re not just imagining fantasy situations, they really try it.

OKAY I’m not saying it’s always, but it's very similar to Peter Kavinsky and Lara Jean's dynamic during their fake dating era. (Did I just drop this reference here because i worship Peter Kavinsky? YES. And do I suggest y'all to do the same? Also YES)

Now, As approachable and fun as y’all seem, you intimidate your admirers more than you think. But in a soft “you could emotionally destroy me” way, not a scary energy. You’re the kind of person who’s laughing and playful one second, then the next second you're staring into their soul like, “That was rude.” And suddenly they’re peeing themselves. Not literally. (Actually maybe literally, idk their bladder strength 😭) Your power lies in that switch-up btw. That unpredictability is super magnetic.

And the thing is, this scary side of yours, You NEED to keep it. Because it filters the unserious ones OUT. Anyone who’s actually worth your energy is gonna step TF up and handle you with the depth and effort you deserve regardless of however you treat them. They know you’re not here for casual nonsense.

When someone ACTUALLY falls for you, You become a literal part of their life. Not just a fleeting crush. You stay. You become their joy, their comfort, their what-if daydream. And the gag? Most of y’all don’t even know how many people feel this way about you. Like your name lives rent-free in people’s minds and you have no idea 💀. You also attract people who are emotionally open about liking you, they’re not trying to keep it to themselves. Some of them may even overdo it, like texting you about their dreams and telling you they miss you when y’all only hung out twice 😭. But at the core of it, They genuinely see your presence as healing. Comforting. The type of person they’d want by their side through all the mess.

Now let’s talk the serious stuff. Y’all didn’t come out the womb this wise and calm. There’s a whole warrior arc in your backstory. You’ve faced betrayal, loneliness, self-worth battles, and still came out with your head high. THAT is why people are drawn to you Also??? The fact that you still have this bright, bubbly side while carrying those wounds? That’s strength. That’s power. That’s hot. You’re not quick to let people in. You’ve built strong boundaries, and for some of you, you’re still learning how to protect your peace. But when someone does earn your trus, You're the most devoted, loyal, and emotionally generous person ever. You’ll hype them up, stand beside them, ride-or-die energy unlocked. That’s why people who crave real loyalty? They get addicted to you.

And bestie… we gotta talk about this one very specific admirer that came through LOUDLY in this pile. I saw a female energy, someone who might be a friend, an old classmate, or someone who’s watched you silently glow-up through the years. Regardless of your gender, this is someone who’s in awe of your ability to rise, to win, to move through hell and still smile. She admires your resilience, your boldness, your light. It’s actually so pure and supportive, it gave me goosebumps. 🥹 This admiration could be romantic or plutonic

BUT regardless of all of this, People don’t just see you as a fun crush. They see you as someone they want to build a bond with. Emotional intimacy. Shared vulnerability. REAL love. You’re warm, healing, and easy to connect with. You make people drop their guard, feel heard, and reflect their best version back to them. That’s soulmate energy, babe. You may not be the most “available” person emotionally, but the moment you let someone in? You change them. You literally unlock a new emotional depth inside their soul. That’s not something they forget. Chemtrails over the country club BY lana would be the perfect song for you. That’s how i see pile 2. Not the public side everyone knows. But the REAL YOU.

Pile 2, you are so complex in the best way. Sweet but intimidating. Flirty but guarded. Soft but strong. People fall for you because you’re not afraid to protect your peace. Because even when you’ve been broken, you still choose love, laughter, and softness.

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‧ ₊ ˚ ✧ PILE 3 ‎✧ ˚ ₊ ‧

Welcomeee my dear reader of pile 3!!! Okay, bestie, so right away I’m seeing that for pile 3, y’all attract people mostly because of your charm 😭. And when I say charm, I mean it in the literal dictionary definition way. It’s not mysterious or hard-to-reach, it’s obvious af. You’re attractive, yes. But it’s not just the looks, it’s also the way you talk, the way you move, your voice, your vibe, your whole aura. (Don’t roll your eyes, this is deadass channeled bestie I’m just the messenger 😭). There's a huge theme of physical attraction here. Like, your admirers are not normal when it comes to how they see you. It’s giving: “I blacked out the moment they walked in.” AND OMG OMG OMG I just heard this line that slapped me across the face: “ These things I wanna say to you but I’ll just let you live…”, “Like if you hold me without hurting me, you’ll be the first to ever did.”

(AHHHHHHH 😭😭 STOPPPP. The first line? That’s from your admirer’s POV. They’re like, “God, I wanna pour my heart out but I’ll keep it to myself and just let you exist in peace.” The second line, That’s YOU. You’re out here carrying emotional scars and just praying someone won’t break you again. (Brb sobbing in the corner.)

Pile 3, bestie… I feel like y’all genuinely crave the feeling of being loved. Not the situationship stuff. I’m talking unconditional, can’t eat, can’t sleep love. You crave that “someone really sees me and stays” energy. And when people fall for you, Babyyy they fall HARD. You’re literally their “that’s it” moment. Like even if they met you yesterday, they’ll be like: “YKW… I think she’s my soulmate” and their bestie is like: “SHUT UPPPP. You’ve said that 90 times already today AHHHH.” (LMAO this sounded so funny in my head 😭)

There’s this genuine innocence and curiosity to y’all that people find so freaking attractive. You give off this vibe like you're always learning, exploring, ready for the next story. And that energy is so infectious. Your admirers get EXCITED just thinking about you. They feel something stir inside them, like their inner child wakes up. You make them wanna live more. (Like okay??? Inspiration queen???) Even from a distance, you seem interesting af. Love looks pretty on you by nessa would describe you so well (guys i found this song for you after thinking for so long lol😭)

Also, you are the friend of the group who cares for everyone. The sweet, emotionally present one. The one who’s always checking in and always comforting others But also very emotional. You’re def the type of person who, if I looked over at you during a sad movie scene, your eyes would be red like a whole tomato LMAOO.

BUTTTT, there’s something deeper here too. I feel like y’all have been traumatized by something from the past. A loss. A heartbreak. A betrayal. Some kind of memory or wound that you just can’t seem to move on from. (Of course this won’t apply to EVERYONE but like... the energy is strong, babes.) It’s like “clinging to a pain that’s long gone, but still shaping how you love.” Some of y’all dealt with serious grief, divorce, losing someone, a major failure. Your admirers see this in you. They notice how you’re trying so hard to move forward, but that grief still remains with you.

I can see how you keep filling other people’s cups, yet you always end up with yours being spilled. That soft, giving heart of yours have been bruised. So now you’re cautious. You don’t trust easily. And that’s fair, but your admirers wish you’d just notice that they’re here too. Like, they’re not those people who hurt you (ofc im not talking abt all of them, this is the picked out genuine ones). They genuinely admire you. They’re not here to take advantage. But you’re scared to reach out again. (I just wanna wrap you up in a warm blanket rn.) They also see you as someone who needs to lighten up a little, not in a rude way, but like, they want you to play again. Be carefree again. Let love IN again. Ughhh

Oh, and here’s the thing… you’ve got HIGH standards. Like skyscraper-high. You’re not out here settling for someone mediocre with “potential.” Nah. You want the real deal. And your admirers feel that pressure. Especially the ones who aren’t totally put-together. They see you as someone who only has eyes for other overachievers like yourself, and they’re like: “Oh she wouldn’t even look at me unless I’m CEO of something.” 😭😭 So yes, your accomplishments? Your power? Your ✨big soul✨? Intimidating af.

Alsooo, your admirers are the type of people who are Jealous as hell. Like possessive for no reason lmao. Even without being with you, even without you knowing they exist, they feel like they own a lil piece of you. The moment someone else talks to you, they’re going insane internally. (Imagine being that magnetic without even trying 😭).

And your communication that’s one of the BIGGEST green flags you have. You’re literally so easy to talk to. Once yall move on from the trauma you have, and stat opening up to people more easily. The bond feels strong, open, and mature with you. Like, actually emotionally intelligent. Even if y’all have some spicy debates here and there, they still feel like they can be honest with you. That’s so rare. That’s what makes you unforgettable.

You’ve got this vibe of: “We can talk through anything. We can be real. No games.” And honestly, that’s more fulfilling than half the fake fairy-tale crap most people have experienced in the past. You offer something real. Safe. And exciting. (A rare specie??? Yes. That’s why they’re obsessed.)

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog, it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! ♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

Dividers by: @uzmacchiato 💗

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lookthetart · 1 year ago

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I'm half way watching Normal People and it's physically infuriating to watch (and NOT in a good way) so idk if I will finish it

#literally two people who have no valid reason to not be together #that make absolutely horrible decisions due to lack of thought or communication #a lot of people find this relatable but thank god I don't #their complete lack of clarity about what they are as a couple and what they feel give me lowkey anxiety #the randomic picking up side relationship while they have this soul crashing connectio to the other is ARRRGGGGH #like??? just be normal??? for two straight episodes???#just go on dates live laugh love idk actually invest and work on the relationship???#when connell said he was going back home for the summer and added ''i imagine you want to see other people'' and Marianne agreed what whyyy #then she cried for a whole episode and he went on to (almost) fuck his high school teacher. whyyyyy. just talk???#idk its a tv show with plenty of beautiful moments but too unnerving #why they don't try to be as per title *NORMAL PEOPLE*#idk they irritate me so much. Marianne didn't irritate me at the beginning but that was shot lived.#they both suck #they always choice the lamest parners after they broke up it's insulting to watch #my normal people live hate posting

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sordidmusings · 6 months ago

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Between Two Points - Ace

Art from the doujinshi Torch by NINEKOKS

Summary: You and Ace have had a ✨thing✨for a good while now so sharing a bed wasn’t strange for you. It was, however, absolutely tormenting Ace, who couldn’t keep his mind from every time you’ve touched. You wake up to find him wanting. You thought you could keep things quick and fun but they just keep on escalating. Especially when he begs to be inside you for the first time.

A/N: oh how Ace has haunted me, especially while writing this lol he’s one of my top favs so brain said we extra need to do him justice 👏 pretty happy with the smut but I’m most happy with the ending scene - I wanted it to be sweet and silly and so very Ace. Part of the Between Two Points series (“just the tip” shots for separate charas)!

Warnings: nsfw, Implications of inexperience (Ace), first time together, sleepy sex (at first lol), subby Ace, he begs and thanks you like a lot, he calls you “pretty” as a pet name, praise kink both ways, emotionally fragile Ace, I didn’t mean for that to come out but he demands it, I just wanna shower him in love and validation until he Understands, until then he gets some pussy, multiple orgasms (for both yayyyyy), overstimulation on Ace, probably cumflation, definitely my obsession with men fighting not to cum, you make him suck the mess off your fingers, aftercare, silly banter to soothe the soul, fem!reader - kept it basically gn but then an old lady joke called to me at the end whoops

Word Count: 10.2k

Come get a serving of that soup ( ˘▽˘)っ♨

“If you see your daydreams in me, they'll not lack

What's been weighted in me, I'll make you quake with reason

I can feel your knees sinking into the bed

Searching in my dark eyes to break what’s been said

There’s a wake of grace, hunting your soreness down

There's a light in my skin that's been dimmed

I'mma dig you up and give you what I took

Pull you up and tuck you in and make you look

I'ma smooth your shoulders down and calm what's shook

It was all forlorn, if only for a season

Watching me is like watching a fire take your eyes from you”

“Can something like this be pulled

From under our feet?

Leaving our skin

And burning coals to meet

Tell me now

The shortest distance

Between two points

Is the line

From me to you”

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Ace still can’t believe you’re in the same bed. Every step into intimacy he’s taken with you leaves him shocked and stumbling. He’ll keep tripping after you forever though because, gods, it’s you. You’ve done a hundred and one things to impress him in emergency and battle, to take his breath away with how you decorate yourself, to make him and others watch on in awe at your skills. Though, all of that pales in comparison to the simple act of you being you. You, who wormed your way into his mind with your quirks and open-minded talks. You, who could light up his body with a simple look, a tender touch, a loving smile. You, who took hold of his heart with your patient kindness and understanding.

You, who is currently keeping him up with the delicious turmoil of holding you so close.

This is the first time you’ve slept in the same bed. Now, you’ve done plenty of other things together, so Ace hadn’t thought that it would be such a big deal. When it hit him that he was really going to be falling asleep cuddled up to you, something so affectionate and domestic, his heart pumped an extra hard beat to wash tingles under his skin. He had thought the flush of excitement would peter off into comfort and contentment. To be fair, a part of it did. The problem is that the other part began incessantly bombarding him with thoughts of everything you could be doing in the bed besides sleeping.

His past experience with you is only making it harder where he thought it would ease his nerves at being close. The sweet or heated kisses you’d grab him to steal only make his lips lonely at their memory. The spark in your eyes as your kisses move southward haunts him and keeps his dick twitching pathetically against your thigh. The echoes of times he got to be the one with his head between your legs, smothering himself in the heady taste and smell of you, has him biting back whimpers. Fuck, he’s aching and flushed and desperate and all you’re doing is sleeping in his arms. He feels guilt creep in.

This should be enough. He shouldn’t be laying here wishing for more of you while you’re already so sweetly snuggling into his chest, offering him trust and affection. Holding you while you’re at your most vulnerable should sate him. Feeling how soft and warm you are with your weight sinking the two of you together should ease him to rest. Yet his mind keeps reminding him of the last time your weight was pressing on him, leaving him equal parts wound up and embarrassed.

As usual, you had been tapped right into when he needed you to escalate things but felt he didn’t have the right to ask. All day he’d been hovering around you, a hand always on arm or shoulder and eyes always ready to jump to you. He was chasing at your heels when you waved for him to follow you so you could settle him with some attention. He was pawing at you the moment your lips touched, moaning at the first rub of tongues, grinding right when you pressed deeper into him.

Soon he was on the floor with you on his lap, your palms pressing your weight into his heaving chest and your hips working him over. He flushed an even deeper shade of pink when you told him how pretty he looks. The thought of it has his cock jumping even now, and he struggles to keep from grinding up into your lower stomach. He can feel a hint of your mound at the base of his cock, begging him to press harder to tease himself with your plush heat and the firmness of your pelvis underneath. Knowing your clit was hiding right there against him - in easy reach for him to make you squirm with pleasure, make such pretty pretty noises, think of nothing else but how good he’s making you feel - chips away at his resolve.

The memory continues with the feeling of his fingers sinking into the meat of your hips, caught between pulling you faster and shoving you off because he felt all too close to his end for a grown man who hasn’t even gotten his pants off yet. You were even still fully clothed but didn’t seem to pay that any mind as you circled and ground yourself on the hard cock trapped in his pants. Even with the layers, he felt how hot your cunt was getting, burning even more against him than your mouth when it took to painting a path through his freckles from cheeks to chest. When you took breaks to grind slowly over him, he felt the little moment where your hips slid before your clothes followed, delayed by you slipping through your own wetness first. His eyes rolled back at the fact that using him got you soaked and that out of everyone you chose him to sit your drooling pussy on.

With that thought and his grinds chasing you back, he felt his balls pull taught and his cock pound dangerously.

No, fuck, he hasn’t even made you cum - his clothes, fuck, he’s still in his clothes you, can’t see him cum in his pants like some pathetic boy, no nonono-

“Please,” Ace gasped out, using all his will power to still his hips and keep them pressed to the ground, “I’m- I’m too- please -hhah- you’re just so- fuck! Please, baby.” He was panting the words between moans, trying to find enough strength to hold your hips still. “Just s-slow down, I’m -nnnngh-” You just smiled devilishly down at him and kept picking up the pace. He grit his teeth and arched his head back, “I’m so fucking close- ah!”

He hides his face in the pillows and your hair even as the praises you had showered him in echo in his ears while he holds your sleeping body. His own painfully awake body shivers while he thinks of how hard he came, how each pump had felt like overwhelming bliss trapped against your heat and to the tune of your voice. It has him grinding against you before he can even think and sighing out in relief at a little bit of the touch he needs.

“Ace?”

Your sleepy mumble makes him freeze, every muscle taught like he grabbed a live wire.

“Why are you awake, honey?” The genuine concern in your sleep-thick voice only makes him feel worse. You try to lift your face from his chest, but a hand on the back of your head traps you there. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he swallows, hoping to trap the stutter back down. “Don’t worry - go back to sleep.”

He places a gentle kiss to the top of your head and scratches your scalp to try and settle you. It works for a moment and he relishes in the feel of your body relaxing back against him. That is, until you shift to the side and snuggle deeper. Your thigh brushes his obvious hard on and you both tense. He panics when he feels your eyelashes tickle his chest, letting him know your eyes flew open wide.

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh, he thinks miserably. He’s confused when he feels you smile against his skin.

“Ace, honey, are you enjoying sleeping with me?” Even with the sleepy tone, you manage to get a lot of smug teasing in your voice.

“Yes?” That wasn’t meant to be a question.

“You sure?” you prod. “You seem awful tense.”

You emphasize the last word with a firm press and rub of your thigh against his aching erection. His whole body shivers and a high sigh escapes him. His hands grasp you at hip and shoulder and he’s struck with the déjà vu of not knowing whether to drag you closer or make you stop.

You’re having no such struggle, happy to find him a wanting mess. You’ll never get over seeing the confident and playful air he parades around with slipping off to reveal something fragile and seeking when you touch him. Sure, he won you initially with that part of him, charming you to his side like every other moth drawn to his inherent light, trapping you there with all the others under his protection and love. Knowing what pieces can lie under that blaze only makes the show more fun to watch. Knowing someone so powerful, so magnetic, feels the same way for you? Shows you places they’re scared to let others see? It’s your greatest rush and most cherished responsibility.

“You’re perfect, honey,” you praise. He just barely bites back a whimper. “Did you know I was dreaming about you?”

“You were?” Ace sounds much more disbelieving than you’d like.

“Mhmm, I do it often.” Your voice softens with honesty. “You’re always on my mind.”

There’s a slight tremble to Ace’s hold on you. He wants to say something, anything, but his throat has closed too tight for words to pass.

“I can prove it to you,” the flirtatious heat to your voice eases the fragile vulnerability away. Ace is yet again thankful for your sixth sense when it comes to his needs. Your thigh creeping its way over his leg and hips helps distract him from the pressure behind his eyes. You settle your leg when it’s resting centered on his sensitive head. The weight of your soft thigh easing down on him forces a shaky “hh-ah!” from him and he feels his face flush in embarrassment and need. You reward the sound with a kiss to his pec.

“Well?” you whisper. “Are you gonna check?”

“Huh?” Ace’s blood is all in the wrong head for him to understand anything but praise and orders. You giggle at him and it makes his dick jump against your thigh.

Taking mercy on him, you grab the hand that’s planted on your hip. Slowly, you lead it to the swell of your ass and press his large hand to grip at you. He does so eagerly, playing with the pliant flesh filling his warm hold. Your sleep shorts are thin, letting him feel you easily despite the barrier. He can’t resist the instinct to pull and spread you open. You hum happily at the feeling, arching into it. Ace blows out a tense breath, bedding his cheek into the top of your head and canting his hips up ever so slightly.

“So good, sweetheart,” you sigh. He squeezes down and turns his face to find comfort in the smell of your hair. “Let me show you.”

You urge his hand a little lower, right to the hem of your shorts. You only stop when his fingertips slip under and tickle the skin right beside the swell of your lips. You want him to decide this on his own. He teases the elastic for a moment before trailing the pad of his finger over your underwear right where the seam of your pussy is, starting from your entrance up to your clit and back. Another content hum leaves you, encouraging him, and he swivels his hand to cup your heat. He shivers at the hot breath curling over his chest, and his head swirls happily when you arch your hips up to push your cunt deeper into his palm.

This time it’s your own hand gripping your ass to spread you open for him. You arch and nudge into his hold more, unintentionally grinding over his cock in your writhing. His fingers twitch, teasing your clit, sparking it to life and leaving you wanting. He’s having trouble keeping himself tempered instead of writhing when he can feel the dampness of your underwear and how they slide messily between his palm and your pussy. He wants it coating his fingers, smeared on his lips, maybe one day he can feel it soaking his cock-

“Touch me,” you whine impatiently.

Hasty fingers push under the band of your underwear and slip between your folds.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Ace moans. His voice is low in his chest but softened by his breathlessness. He takes his time petting around your entrance and enjoying the feeling of your lips slipping to encase his fingers when he flattens them out to reach your clit.

“Told you I was dreaming about you,” you mumble happily. Even though your body is heated and tingling, you’ve still got the weight of sleep pulling at you, leaving you in a content mix of dreaminess and pleasure. You relax further into Ace, happy to let him touch you as he likes in that tentative, worshipping way of his. It’s that endearing contrast to the brash and confident way he presents himself and fights. He always starts touching you like it’s an honor he doesn’t deserve, something he needs to take slowly lest he scare you off or never get the chance again. Even though you love the treatment, it breaks your heart that he thinks he’s so below you as to not deserve to touch you, let alone receive your affection.

The tip of a finger presses at your entrance, just enough to have the pad sink in. You swivel your hips to urge him further and moan when he listens to your plea. Ace moans with you, always amazed at your tight heat. It welcomes him easily despite gripping down snugly on his skin. He pulls his digit out with a curl, shivering when your muscles clamp back against him. You sigh his name in that dreamy way that makes him feel special, and he can’t help but add another finger and sink them in deep. Even though he’s in to the last knuckle, you shove your face down into his chest and your ass into the air to try and suck him in deeper. He rewards you by petting at your walls, drawing more pleasurable twitches from your cunt.

“More,” you whine. It’s half demand and half complaint and all turning his brain to mush. How quickly you are winding into desperation is only making his own need grow. He needs to hear more from you, he needs you to fix the burning under his skin, he needs fuck himself into a place so deep in you that you can never be rid of him.

“Need to be inside you,” Ace groans before he can think about the words. “Please, pretty baby, you feel too good-” he swallows thickly when you hungrily grind back onto his massaging fingers, “fuck -hah- need to know-” he can’t finish his sentence because you’ve snuck your hand down to palm his erection and stroke him in time with your thrusting hips.

“Think you’re ready to fuck me?” you ask. You meant to check in and make sure he was emotionally ready, but your breaths rushing out of you made it sound harsh.

“Please,” he begs, voice broken, holding you tight with his free hand, “I’ll make you feel so good- promise, promise.”

“I’m just worried-”

“It’ll be okay,” he promises immediately, “just a quick feel, you don’t even have to let me fuck you- just gotta feel you on my cock at least once.” He tries to win your favor by using his free hand to tease your clit.

“Ace,” you gasp. It’s hard to slow him down when he’s winding your body up so well. With a quick jerk, he shifts you up his body, giving him better leverage to work you on his fingers. It lands your face in the pillow next to his and he takes the opportunity to suck open mouthed kisses across your neck. You mean to talk to him and get a hold on how frantic he’s getting, but all you can do is let out muffled moans into soft cotton.

“I’ll be good,” Ace whispers against the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and humid and gets you one step closer to an orgasm lighting you on fire. “I’ll make you cum until you can’t worry anymore.” The fingers tweaking your clit and prodding your firming walls give weight to his promise. Your hips are already starting to stiffen and twitch with the oncoming climax. “I’ll keep begging, I’ll worship you, anything you want, just, fuck-” his voice breaks before he can stop it. “Please let me feel you.”

Ace feels like he can’t get enough air; he won’t be able to breathe if you pull away - he’s sure he’ll suffocate without you. His whole body is pulsing and alive with urgency, not just the cock straining against his pants. The only thing that’s keeping him grounded is you. Your pretty moans slipping out, half-covered by the pillow. Your searching hands, grasping and working his body over in search of something to hold on to. Your chest blanketing his own, ebbing and flowing in waves with your heavy breathing pressing into him. Most of all, the slick, plush grip of your cunt around his fingers, singing to him in little wet slaps every time it welcomes his fingers back home.

“Ace, I’m-” you turn your head towards him so he can hear and find him already looking at you. His flush is deep enough to try and hide his freckles and his pupils are blown enough to turn his brown eyes black. His slack jaw lets your breaths mingle. The pressure of his fingers on your clit increases just the slightest bit, but it’s just right to get your body to clamp down and not let go. “I’m so close, gonna cum, please, love-” Ace sobs out a moan at the new pet name and presses the fingers inside you even more insistently “ahhn! Don’t stop, don’t stop, gonna-”

You suck in a greedy breath and it’s trapped in your lungs as your body starts to seize up. The hit of pleasure has you curling as close as you can into Ace, needing to clutch him when the first wave crests heavily. His fingers follow you when you squirm to center fully on top of him, soothing you through the ride with gentle pumps into your twitching walls. You breathe again after a moment, letting out a flurry of praise into Ace’s shoulder. The little shakes of your hips make you rub against his trapped cock and his eyes roll back against his wish to keep watching you.

The way your pussy clamps down on his fingers is absolute torture. Pressed so close with his eyes shut, he can almost imagine the rhythmic waves of your spasming cunt milking him while he fucks you full of cum. It has him panting along beside you like he was the one who just came.

You’re easing down from your high, swollen walls settled along his now unmoving fingers. The sound of your panting settles with you and the room starts to still into a cozy calmness. Your muscles feel liquid and uncooperative as you try to adjust into a comfier position. The movement yet again rubs you against Ace and he whimpers at the heavy gush of precum it pulls from him.

With a pained sound, Ace wiggles the hand that had been toying with your clit out from under your hips and past his sensitive cock to draw shapes on your back. The action brings the smell of sex closer up to his face and he can’t help but groan. Fuck, he doesn’t want to push you or bother you, but the high of seeing you cum has passed and left him even more wanting.

“Pretty?” Ace starts softly. He kisses at your temple and you hum in reply. “...please?”

You hum again, only half hearing him between the orgasm taking the wind out of your sails and that wind having only been a small gust in the first place given it was somewhere around the witching hour.

“I still need you,” he urges, pressing his hips up gently for some miniscule relief and to make you understand. He’s scalding hot below you and throbbing into your lower stomach and it starts to bring you some clarity.

“While I’d love to continue, I’m tired,” you sigh. Before he can apologize or take it the wrong way, you continue. “Normally that wouldn’t really be a problem, but I want to be bright eyed and bushy tailed the first time I fuck you.” Even with the casual way you’re talking, Ace sighs happily and pulls you tighter at the idea. Before you can think about how you’re about to contradict your words, your mouth moves and you’re back to riling him. “I’ve thought of our first time together a lot, and I’m going to treat you to much more than some sleepy sex.” He shivers and moves back to mouthing at your neck at the promise. “I want you sitting pretty under me while I show you everything I can do to you.”

“But I’m under you now,” Ace argues.

“You are, and you’re doing so good at the looking pretty thing too,” you sigh in mock defeat. You feel him smile against your neck, both from the praise and from gaining some ground. Gotta get that idea back out of his head. “I don’t wanna leave you hanging, but I want to do more for you the first time you’re inside me.”

Ace doesn’t share that worry. He’s more worried about using his free hand to start guiding your hips in slow circles to feel the motion around the fingers still sitting inside you. It also teases his still leaking cock and makes it painfully easy to imagine the sensation blending so his cock feels the circles and the grip of your cunt. It flutters on his digits and he flexes his hand to feel the twitching muscles better, putting pressure towards your lower stomach. You keen at the burn it sets in your nerves, arching against his hand to feel more. Shoved so snuggly into your body, Ace’s fingers pick up the thump of your racing heart beating behind the walls of your pussy. He’s never needed anything more than he needs to feel it tapping against the racing pulse of his own heart pulsing through his cock.

“Please, pretty, please please ple-hease” he begs again, beyond reason. “What if- what if we don’t fuck? What if you just let me inside you to keep me warm?”

The idea is quite tempting. You kiss at the side of his face, giving yourself time to enjoy the fantasy of cockwarming him. It’s one you’ve come back to many times in your daydreams of him. Still, you want to fuck the sanity out of him the first time he’s inside you.

“Ace, no-”

“Just the tip.” The words are rushed and breathless and broken. “What if it’s just the tip?”

You realize there’s no reasoning with him and you’re losing the want to try. It’s not like you haven’t been wanting to fuck him since lust rode in on the coattails of “wow he’s pretty and so sweet”. He’s not the only one hiding insecurities though, and you frequently fear that if you don’t keep up the trend of blowing his mind with all the physical stuff then he’ll get bored of you. You can’t accept your first time together being anything less than perfect; the very idea fills you with dread, so much so that the potent temptation of Ace writhing and begging and even just his fingers making you feel so fucking good hasn’t shaken it off you.

“I can’t-” Ace swallows hard, “I can’t just keep dreaming about it, please, fuck, pretty, I need you.”

You believe him. You’ve never heard him so lost before in all your times fooling around. He’s prone to his tongue loosening the longer you touch and this is far from the first time he’s pleaded with you, but this felt different. There’s a frantic undertone to his voice and the words spilling from his lips. There’s truth to the emotion turning his grasp into a delicious mix of powerful and trembling. There’s no arguing with the twitching length grinding into your lower stomach - no way you can deny how hard he feels or the heat of it burning against you even through your clothes. It’s enough to make you lose yourself to the thought of getting to clamp down around his firm cock while the length finds places to toy with much deeper than you can reach. You can tell from the shape against you his width would press back at every nerve you’ve got, waking them up and making them sing.

You come back to reality when he sneaks in a deep thrust of his fingers. The wet sound makes him moan, and the responding clench turns it into a deep, throaty “fuck”. His head flies back as he arches and grinds. You look up from the pillow and see his pretty black waves piling next to the sharp cut of his jaw. The bob of his throat as he swallows matches the jump of his cock. You feel every detail of it and notice he’s leaked enough to soak through his shorts and your shirt, leaving a sticky spot against your skin.

“You make me feel so good,” Ace moans. “I can make you feel good too.”

The fact that he thinks he needs to convince you of that even with his fingers stuffed in you, held tight with how your cunt’s swelled from pleasure, proves he’s very far from rational thought.

“You did,” you promise with a sweet kiss to his neck. “Now it’s your turn.” His head shoots up to give you a hopeful look. “You’ve cum from less, isn’t this enough?” You swirl your hips down against him to illustrate your point.

“It’s not about cumming,” he grumbles, suddenly sounding a bit more coherent and honestly a bit offended. “I wanna be closer.”

That throws you so off guard you just spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

“We could take off our clothes?”

Ace doesn’t give you time to take it back, his hands flying from you and already shoving his shorts down his thighs. He sighs in relief when his cock springs free, and nudges his head into yours mindlessly in relieved affection. Too impatient to finish the task, he stops pushing his shorts while they’re halfway down to instead get his hands under your shirt. You go to finish what he started but get distracted taking handfuls of his waist and thighs. When you thumb at the descending line of his adonis belt, Ace can do nothing but press into your touch, even pausing his mission to get under your clothes.

You lay yourself back on Ace, now trapping his dick between his twitching abs and the soft skin of your stomach and the tease of trimmed hair on your mound. Somewhere in his brain he thinks he should be ashamed of how he’s an absolute mess from something so simple as feeling your skin on his cock. At the moment, the shame is overshadowed by sheer need and awe. This is you - he’s dreamed of this, agonized over it, sat drowning in a mind and body desperate to find a way to get you to look at him, let alone touch him. Even when you started pulling him with you for teasing tastes on top of your shared missions together, all the time between had them feeling fake. Getting to have you feels so foreign and unattainable that his brain writes it off as false memories when you aren’t in his hands.

And that’s why he holds you all the more tightly when you’re in reach. He needs you cemented in his grip and sunk into every sense so you’re all he knows. No questions, no doubts, no loneliness, no hollowness, just the comfort of you. He gets his lips back on yours before he breaks.

You hook your thumbs into your shorts and underwear but it’s not quick enough for Ace. He grabs them in a tight fistful and yanks. Your spread thighs keep them from getting lower than the end of your ass and Ace whines into your mouth. Trying not to break the kiss, you lean onto your right leg and try to work the other out of your clothing. It’s a clumsy and messy affair, each of you using a hand to tug at the garments while the other is busy trying to feel and hold as much of each other as possible. You lean back to look and finally get the damn thing off and Ace chases you the whole way. Between the hot slide of tongue, the nipping on lips, and the dancing rolls of kiss and grind you manage to get your left leg completely free of clothing.

“Fuck, pretty, how -hhh-ah!- do you do that?” Ace moans breathlessly after you set your hips back on him.

“Do what?” You’re moving your clit up and down his shaft in torturously slow grinds, mind fuzzed with the feeling of your wetness making you glide so smoothly on him.

“Make me -mmnngh!- fuck-” You circle your clit around his sensitive head, turning his speech into a few heaving breaths and groans. “Make me forget everything.”

Your lips are back on his in a rush, too fast for you to get out all the loving words living in you. First it’s as insistent and firm as your hips are working him over. After a long minute though, he’s lost too much breath to do much more than pant and hump into you in a desperate chase to feel more and more. You begin laying quick kisses to his cheek and land one in the shape of a smile on the corner of his open mouth. You feel it curl up under the press of your lips.

“You m-make me happy,” Ace admits, a twinge of nerves managing to show through all the arousal in his voice. You bump your nose to his gently.

“You’re my happiness, Ace.”

He whines and screws his eyes shut even more tightly. You feel his cock throb heavily against you. Taking advantage, you change to little circles against him and feel the pressure of it tease at your clit and entrance. A hand snakes into your hair and grips, holding you steady to press your foreheads together. His eyes crack open to search yours for lies. Even in the rush of your grinding bodies, the eye contact is still and sturdy as steel.

“You can’t just say that,” Ace breathes.

You feel how close he is, even harder than before and thrusts getting stilted in an attempt not to cum. You set on that singlemindedly, needing to hear his breathy broken moans, feel him squirm and jerk, shove him straight into a headspace empty of all but bliss. You get your own hand in his hair and tug, earning a moan and more pleads. Busying your mouth with his neck, you begin sliding along his whole length at a quick pace. The burn in your thighs is nothing compared to the pressure building between your hips, getting tighter and brighter with every swipe.

“No, holy shit, so close, s’close -hah hahngg-“ Ace starts babbling, “wanna cum in you, I’ll do anything, I’ll -mnnngh- anything please, fuck, too good, so fucking wet, so -fuck- can’t, please no, no ‘m gonna cum-“

You suck and teethe at the sensitive spot behind his ear and twist your grip in his hair, sure that would throw him over. Instead he lunges forward to sink his teeth into your shoulder and his hands clamp onto your hips to hold them perfectly still. You’re reminded of the power in the man who falls apart for you. It makes you clench and gush against him with a throaty moan. He holds on for dear life through it, tensing and throbbing and leaking and just barely managing to hold off his orgasm.

Once he’s sure he’s relatively safe, he lets go of your shoulder and begins kissing over the slight indents. The gentle touch feels electric on the tender skin. He continues to hold your hips prisoner, imobile against his own. After some deep breaths he pulls back to look at you.

“I don’t want it to ever stop,” his eyes are shiny and his lips tremble, but not as much as his words. “Please.” That commanding grip lightens. He slides his hands so he can massage his thumbs into the creases where your thighs meet your hips, sending sparks under your skin. “Just a little of you.”

Your resolve finally breaks and you agree. “Just the tip.”

“Thank you,” Ace rushes out. “Remind me to take you out and spoil you.”

You huff out a laugh even though you’re pretty sure he’s serious.

“As if you don’t try already.”

You shimmy forward and he rights you into his grip again; getting you on him with as much skin to skin as possible, just where you belong. It makes maneuvering a bit more difficult but neither of you care; you’re too busy enjoying each other’s heat and taste.

“No goofing, just romance.”

His arms encase you while yours frame him, taking time to touch skin and play with his fluffy hair. You’re firmly settled against him, laying with your cunt just in reach of his leaking head. Each breath presses you deeper into each other and lets pressure tease at your breasts. You take a moment to sneak fingers to your sides so you can tweak his nipple. The shocked hiss is one of your favorites.

“Where’s the fun in that?” You reach back to grab hold of him and give him a few firm strokes, just to hear his pretty gasps. “The gentleman act isn’t as fun without the goofy contrast.”

“It’s not an a-aahhhhhhnn-“ You use your grip on him to circle his head on your entrance and press back just enough for the weeping tip to catch. After drawing out the sensation for a few more breaths, you move to sit up for a better angle to give him a shallow ride, but he stops you.

“Stay.” Even though it’s an order it sounds like a plea. At your confused look he continues, “If you stay like this I won’t be able to start fucking you if I lose myself.”

He feels you clench against his cockhead and it twitches in response, desperate to sink just a little deeper and letting you know with a pressure that hovers just under enough to finally slip into you. He knows “if” was too weak a word; the moment he feels the plush heat of your cunt he’s a goner. He’s had ambition and determination and stubbornness woven through parts of his being since his first breath. Yet they all fail him when he aims them at restraint here. Staring down a warlord was easier than fighting his bone deep desire for you. You just have a way of making him feel so full of life that it circles back around to an endless emptiness unless he’s smothered in your presence. Like any addict, the starting hits were no longer enough and he’d chase bigger and bigger ones til he had the endless high of being always near and always yours. His body being newer to such waves makes it easier for his instincts to take over him when more becomes not enough.

You feel the slick skin of his tip licking at your entrance with each breath you both take, so focused on every little motion you swear you can feel his heartbeat against your cunt. You start pressing back more.

“Wait,” Ace gasps. He plants a hand at the back of your head and turns it to face him. You meet blown pupils in shiny eyes, brows fighting not to pinch, freckles dancing with every word and expression. His warm breath tickles your swollen lips and you can taste its sweetness on your tongue. You want to keep looking around his pretty face but his pleading eyes have you locked in their heat. “Look at me.”

You barely think to give him a shaky nod.

Ace reaches his other hand down to join yours on his shaft. It slips easily around your grip and holds gently, letting you keep control. Your hand feels so hot between his large one and the beating cock in your palm. Testing his grip, you slowly pump down his shaft, a slick sound from the dripping of your cunt and his precum sliding through your fingers, and make your way back up to the tip with a twisting wrist. His hand trembles around yours and he curses against your lips but he simply follows your movements.

Happy with the reaction, you continue on. He begins sinking in and his brows furrow further. The slow pace lets him feel every bit of texture, every flutter of the muscles of your entrance as they greet him. He’s in enough for you to encase his slit and you both feel the reward of a thick gush of precum spilling right into you. You breath out a syrupy “so good” and Ace fights again not to cum again - it gives him visions of fucking you fast and deep until you’re hiccuping those words and he’s pumping you full for real. He doesn’t want to be hasty though, he might miss a single second of this blissful torture.

His dick is pressed in to a catch, hovered right where his head flares widest. You hold him steady and give a little circle of your hips to feel him play with your stretching entrance.

“-hah- holy o-oh -nnnngh- thank you thank you,” he mumbles and moans between trying to breathe. His eyes roll back and screw shut for a moment before he fights them back open to watch your hazy eyes and slack jaw. He pulls you forward by the hand in your hair to press your foreheads together. Those fingers begin a haphazard massage as they switch between grasping for grounding and petting at you in adoration.

You take in a lungful of his breath and his musk and the ambient sex and shimmy just a little lower. At last, your cunt gives to let the rim of his head pop in, finally warming you from the inside. It immediately has you clench down and you can’t help but moan pathetically at finally having something to clench down on. The burning skin of his cockhead presses back at the twitching walls of your cunt, sending jolts up your spine.

“Y-you -ahh- you’re so-“ Ace is struggling against his scattered mind and an ocean of oxytocin to get you to understand how perfect you are and how his chest is so full it aches and how he’d fight through pirates, marines, the whole world government just to be this close to you again. All that comes out is a grumbling, fervent moan of “warm”.

You clench again at the word and he whimpers. You slip your hand off of his cock and out of his grip before using it to make him hold his cock for you. It gets the sticky mess all over him, which he quickly uses to twist his hand slowly up and down his shaft. You follow the movement for a few pumps then bring your hand up to your faces. You’d wanted a taste but you get a better idea.

The moment the pads of your fingers touch Ace’s lips, he opens them just a bit wider for you. He can smell the heady mix of you both and his mouth waters eagerly. Slowly and deliberately, you sneak two fingers past his lips and press them on his tongue, his eyes burning into you the whole time. He’s quick to seal his lips and suck, hot tongue roving over your digits to collect every drop. You can hear the wet sound of his working hand get faster. You shove your fingers in to the last knuckle and he swallows them down greedily, moaning the whole time.

It’s impossible to keep yourself still; the fucked out look on Ace’s flushed face and the attention feeding but not sating your cunt make you squirm. All the movement from his jerking, constantly getting faster and firmer, has his cockhead massaging every nerve of your entrance and reverberated through your lips and clit, sinfully delicious yet maddeningly subtle. Your body is begging for him to force his way deep, split you around his thick cock, feel that pounding drag against every inch of your swollen and pulsing pussy. Instead, you have to settle for a slow tilt and pull of your hips, guiding the head sitting heavy in you to press more one way then the next. One particularly hard pump of his hand sends a strong shock to your clit and you grip him with your hands as tightly as your core wrings down around him. A heavy throb of his cock gushes more precum into you.

Hearing how much he’s struggling to breathe fast enough through his nose, you pull your fingers from his mouth to instead pull at his hair. He’s mumbling out curses and praises between frantic kisses around your lips. The battle to stare into your eyes is becoming lost; Ace’s won’t stop rolling back and fluttering closed and losing focus. You can practically taste how close he is and it sets your whole body alight. You’re sure when he cums you’ll be able to feel the pleasure in your own body.

“Ace,” you call and his eyes crack open to see you again. His lashes are so dark and long and make his eyes look all the darker. “Need to feel you cum.” The words are rushed and urgent, trying to sneak around gasps and moans. “Love, I want you t-to -mnnn!- fuck me full.”

“Fuck!” The word “love” echoes violently around Ace’s head, and he’s so wound up and frayed he’s scared he may actually catch fire. His scramble is immediate - hands flying down to clamp onto your hips, fingers sinking deep into your skin, head thrown back giving you a full view of the flush hiding his freckles, the strong jaw working between going slack and gritting his teeth, but most importantly his hips thrust against his will. A mindless, ravenous instinct locked in place and told him to rut until neither of you could move, until each thrust wrung more cum from him only to have it gush out of you because how could you possibly hold more?

Unfortunately, Ace had planned ahead. Your precarious alignment lets the first few thrusts sink him just a centimeter deeper, the relief of more of you only matched by the insatiable need to have all of you. Just when he feels the knot of pleasure pull his balls taught and tense his cock hard as a rod, a thrust knocks him loose.

Ace lets out an actual wail as he loses your heat. The bliss of his orgasm gets lost with it, ebbing away quickly and leaving him frantic.

“No fuck I- please I was so close, shit-,” Ace sobs right by your ear where he’s nestled himself close for comfort.

Needing to calm him and missing the feeling of him too terribly, your hand goes back to his cock while you distract him with sloppy open mouthed kisses. You find him easily and try to settle him with a few firm pumps. Ace is relieved as the feeling comes back fast and he’s already tensing and squirming and curling his toes as his orgasm beats to life in his cock again.

“That’s it, love,” you encourage. “I’ve got you.”

“Can’t, cumming cummingcumming-“ Ace chants urgently, kicked straight over the edge by your care. You rush to get him back inside you first but his cock’s already kicking in your grip. The first spray of cum lands where your thigh meets your ass and the second splashes over your pussy. By the third you’re pressing him back in. The whole time Ace is moaning high and gasping and pulling you to him like he needs you to breathe. He’s squirming and handsy, back arching off the bed while he takes any handful of you he can get. You feel the heavy pump of his next spurt of cum and fall to instinct yourself. You push your body down his and plop the weight of your hips in his lap, taking him in one swift motion and a heavy slap.

“Yes! Y-ye-nnnghah!- yesss thank you thank you so good so good s’good-“

You grind yourself in a heavy drag, forward and back, relishing having him all the way inside you. He feels thick enough to press your hips wide and long enough to punch at your lungs. Each grind has him play with your insides, lighting every nerve to make you feel like he’s filled you from head to toe. Each grind also has a fresh throb press at your cunt and spurt more sticky cum where his head twitches against your deepest spots. It has an unfamiliar pit swallowing the orgasm that’s nearly formed in your core, filling your nerves with a new life. You pick up the pace, needing more of that deep seated burn you can feel with each rub of him in the pit of your gut.

Ace whines as his sensitive cock has less and less to give yet keeps up its pumping. He’s beside himself, feels completely out of control of his muscles and voice as he grinds and moans and pleads, yet somehow his hands help press your hips harder into his, adding strength to your ride with every push and pull. He’s left slack jawed at the feeling, mouth hung open to let out every humid pant and desperate sound. He can feel your thighs clamp up around his hips, your fingers claw frantically at his chest, your hips begin to shake and jump. Most of all he can feel the coming orgasm sink into the muscles of your cunt as they swell and twitch and begin to clamp down on him like a vice.

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop-“ now you’re chanting to him and he feels a new rush flow through his body. The ending orgasm is replaced with new interest amid the burning haze of overstimulation. Every fiber in him knows that he just needs to make you cum and he’ll know what heaven is like.

Ace sits up quickly to meet you, detouring to mouth over your swaying chest and enjoy a taste of your perked nipples before he gets some space to watch your blissed out face and writhing body. He begins thumbing at your clit while his other hand urges your hips up a few inches. For a moment you keep your hips moving but they freeze when Ace plants the hand that was on them behind him and his feet on the mattress and he starts to fuck up into you. They’re shallow, staccato slaps of his hips into yours, sloppily pushing his cum out of you to make stickier sounds, sending vibrations rattling through the underside of your clit still pressed under his thumb, and it’s exactly everything you ever needed.

The deep pit his fat cockhead taps at again and again pulls taught until your whole cunt squeezes and then you feel like you burst. A breath you didn’t know you were holding rushes out of you with a holler of his name and you curl forward to cling to him. You try and ride out the high as it seizes you, shaking through your hips and legs and tightening its fist around your whole core. You don’t remember an orgasm ever massaging through you like this before - pulling heavy waves of clamp and release from your cervix to your entrance, each one making Ace’s cock feel even bigger and the pressure of that cock forcing you to stay open makes you nerves sing and dance tingles through your clit and up your spine and under your skin.

You’re not the only one stuck at it’s mercy; Ace’s head is empty of all but the way the sensation ravages through his nervous system, taking his body from him and commanding it to hold you closer, harder, to fuck you faster, firmer. He knows his mouth is moving, but he’s not sure what it’s saying. His head is full of curses and wonder and “thank you”s and “love you”s but he has no clue what’s making it past. The only things he seems to hear are the roaring of his blood in his ears and the stream of praise tumbling from your lips. You gasp out, “Ace! Fuck, you’re so -hahn- perfect”, and he sears it in his brain forever. The way you pray your pleasure to him, bleed his name and “love” together as if they’re the same thing, it has his head spinning and his heart swelling and cock burning.

The pulses of your high get further apart so you force will into your legs and bounce with Ace to chase them. After a few though, his feet slip out straight and both hands are back on your hips to guide your thrusts and hold you tight. He’s kissing down the side of your face then hiding himself in the crook of your neck, where he can switch between kissing the taste of salt off your skin and huffing in lungfuls of the scent of your hair and skin and sweat and sex. He can taste his bliss on every moan he chokes out, can feel it throb closer with every clap of your hips he just clap needs a little more, needs the way clap your fingers tug his hair clap yes just like that and clap fuck, the way your pussy clap sucks him in clap so so close, just-

“Fuck, Ace, can’t breathe -hahnngh- too much, don’t let it stop -ah!- please, need you-“

He whimpers and crushes you in his hold, forcing you to sit still with him pressed as deep as he can go so he can feel every inch of you while he cums again. The first wave hits and he surges forward when his abs clamp tight, knees pulling up behind you to fully surround you.

“Again?” You manage to gasp against his cheek.

“Yes,” he whines, “you’re just- fuck, fuck!”

It’s near painful to cum so hard so quickly after the last. His head is murky and floating at the strange sensation of the orgasm tearing through his muscles to make him grind and pump into you without having anything to gush out. Your body still seems happy enough with the offering though, completely in sync to milk out everything he could possibly give.

It’s the perfect end to your high to be in your body enough to take in every bit of his high moans and mumbling and feel every bit of touch his instincts have him showering over you. He keeps nosing at your neck for comfort and tickling the sensitive skin there with kisses and words spoken right against your skin. His hands are deeply kneading the flesh of your hips, petting in trembling fingers and always pulling to keep your hips flush to his. His abs tense and jump, both with his stuttering breath and with the strong pulls of his dick every time it tries to force more out of him in a soul-deep need to fill you with him until he’s a permanent piece of you. His thighs are doing much the same, jostling you slightly against him from how he’s curled around you. Yes, this is exactly what you needed to cap your high and ease you back into reality. Especially with that deep voice of his showing off its range.

“Thank you, thank -nnngh- you, wanna be this close forever -ahhh- never -mm!- stop feeling you, love this, l-love y-y-hah!”

You guide him the whole time, petting his hair, kissing his temple, teasing his skin with your nails, and holding his back. The way he clings to you sets you ablaze but also lets you know how desperately he needs to feel held. His firm hold and your returning squeezes are the anchor that secures you both through the torrent and the drop from sharing bodies. Because of the affection, that drop is a landing in pure comfort and relaxation. Your muscles are all becoming liquid and you simply melt into each other and breathe.

Ace may have never finished that thought out loud, but he continued it in the affection of his lips pressing so tenderly to your heated skin. He made it clear in the reverence of his hold on you, full of trailing fingertips worshipping your shape and gentle squeezes closer with warm and supportive palms. You understood from the cozy sway he set while drawing his temple up the side of your face to then skim the tip of his nose over your cheek and rest your foreheads together then find stillness. All the words he didn’t say came through in your shared breaths, which grew from humid puffs to a slow and smooth rhythm.

Just in case you missed the rest, he brushed his lips across yours, light enough to tickle before easing forward to mold them together. Your lips part to taste him once more and he indulges you, happily slipping his tongue between your lips for another dance. It’s unhurried how you kiss, lips firm and sure in how they press and drag together, tongues brushing slowly not to arouse but to simply enjoy. The slick sounds of the deep kisses ring in your ears in the quiet room along with the hushes of breath slipping between you two. Ace pulls in one particularly deep breath through his nose before breaking the kiss to sigh his happiness out. The whole thing is punctuated by one last sweet peck.

“I feel it too, Ace,” you promise.

His voice is thick when he whispers out once more, “Thank you.”

You rest your head on his shoulder and press a smile to his skin. Ace tilts his head just so to rest it on yours and closes his eyes to simply be. You’re not sure how long you stay sat in his lap holding him. Instead of the tick of a clock you have the swell of his breaths and the brush of his thumb. Now and again he’d start and leave a subtle sway or press kisses to your hair or squeeze you just a little tighter. You’d respond to it all in kind but his favorite was when he could feel a smile press your cheek into his collarbone or when you’d rest your hand over his pec just to better feel his heartbeat.

Unfortunately, soreness begins to set in your hips and you have to move. Ace isn’t a big fan of the idea; you can tell from his grumble and his arms cinching around your waist. It's endearing, but no match for the protest in your joints.

“Ace, I’m sore,” you laugh out the complaint, too amused by his pouting. “Let’s lay down.”

“That I can agree to,” he says.

You doubt his words when you start to get off him and receive an indignant “hey”.

“Who said you were allowed to get off?”

“Pretty sure I was just letting us both get off.”

“I helped,” he pouts.

“That’s an understatement,” you reassure with two quick pats to his cheek. “But for real, I gotta get off so we can get settled.”

“Agree to disagree,” Ace chimes with that maddeningly bright and charming smile of his. It crinkles his nose a moment and scrunches his eyes in a way that brings out their glimmer and you’re sure you’d never be able to say no to that face for long.

“Okay,” you sigh. “How are we going to do this?”

“Clumsily,” he answers without missing a beat and you laugh again.

“Okay, Commander, take the reins,” you say as you settle back into laying against him, happy to let him take over this clown show.

“Ooooo ‘commander’, huh? Wanna try calling me that next time?”

Instead of responding you give his back a half-hearted swat.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he reasons.

“I’m filing it away for later, but please Ace my poor hips. You’re gonna make me an old lady in my twenties,” you whine.

“At least you make a cute granny.” You can hear the cheeky smile in his voice.

“Move!” You laugh and he finally does.

He scoots you both back once, holding you tight through it while you giggle at the bumpy ride. Now back to the center of the bed, he shimmies for good measure and lays himself back. He holds his arms out expectantly and you just raise a brow at him.

“You’re gonna slip out.”

“I believe in you,” he says. He tried to be deadpan but his lips couldn’t resist the smile.

“There’s your first mistake,” you say and he just smiles wider.

You shift to the right so you can rotate your left leg out and down. You lean your weight on his chest for balance, a palm flat on each large pec, and slide your leg down and back right next to his. You shiver at the release in your joint and Ace shivers at the pressure on his chest and the jostle of your hips. His softened dick twitches in interest.

“Stop that, we need to sleep,” you reprimand with no real heat.

“I didn’t tell it to do that,” Ace deflects.

You chuckle and continue repositioning, leaning to the left this time. It feels just as nice when your right leg gets to be straight again and you can finally lay down. It feels a little strange to be lying directly on Ace’s middle instead of tucked to his side or spooning but it’s not unwelcome. It’s definitely not a permanent feature, though, and you tell him as much.

“Just for a while,” Ace promises. Much softer he adds, “Not ready yet.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Taking stock of your body, you feel a pleasant exhaustion and let it help you sink further into Ace. His hands rest gently on your back, one spread between your shoulder blades and one drawing shapes over your lower back. His thighs are so warm next to yours and the packed muscle feels so soft when he’s relaxed like this. The same goes for the pec currently being used as your pillow. Okay, maybe you could stay this way quite awhile; Ace is unfairly warm and comfortable and having him sit still half in you sates some instinct you didn’t know you had.

“Blanket?” Ace asks.

“Dealer’s choice,” is your non-committal response.

With some reaching and finagling, Ace manages to get a hold of the sheets and flap them to lay over you. He leaves them so that they cover your legs but make it no further than the small of your back. It lets the slight chill of the room continue to cool you off without going so far as to make you cold. It’s absolutely perfect with his high body temperature radiating below you. Yeah, you’re pretty sure you could drift off into some of the best sleep of your life just like this.

A thought strikes you.

“How did you stay hard that whole time?”

“I dunno,” he answers honestly through a yawn. Then he chuckles and adds, “maybe you just have a magic pussy.”

You laugh at the stupid joke, happy he’s relaxed enough in your relationship to joke more about sex now.

“Too bad you can’t go around testing that theory,” you sigh in mock sympathy.

Ace perks up and stares at you real strong. His eyes that were just fighting sleep are now full of life. You don’t say more and just let him look and stew on your words.

“Say it again but like I’m stupid?”

“That’s what I usually try to do.”

He barks a laugh.

“Damn, must be hard loving an idiot.”

“Not at all.” The tenderness that seeps from your words melts him straight through. Thinking better of leaving it (you know he knows you’re joking, but you also know that his mind is exceptionally cruel), you use the last of your energy to get up on your elbows and look him in the eyes. “You’re a dumbass sometimes, especially with those brothers of yours, but more than that you’re really smart.” You place a sweet kiss to his forehead. “And you’re strong and determined and reliable.” A kiss to one cheek. “And empathetic and sweet and thoughtful.” A kiss to the other one. “And you wanna know what you are more than anything else?”

“What?” His voice shakes and his eyes burn and he’s so exhausted from all the emotions of the night but they’ve also been the most precious things ever.

You rest your forehead to his and take a deep breath, savoring the moment.

“You’re very very easy to love.”

A kiss binds your words and lips.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 Please let me know if you did and criticisms are also welcome 🤍

Restarting tag list because Overthinking lol please lmk if you want to be on one! Even if you think it's obvious. I am: Stupid and Anxious 💀

Between Two Points Masterlist - separate character shots for the “just the tip” trope

Masterlist

#ace x reader #one piece x reader #ace smut #one piece smut #one piece fanfiction #portgas d ace #portgas d ace x reader #ace x you #portgas ace x reader #reader insert #reader insert smut #fem reader #x reader #one piece #thirst hours #my writing #Spotify

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wendichester · 25 days ago

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⋆˚꩜｡ handled with rage,

summary. you and dean are fighting and you make the mistake of slamming the impala's door.

pairing. dean winchester x reader ft. very distressed sam genre. intense

wordcount. 649

notes / warnings. intense verbal altercation, reader slams the impala’s door (sinful), physical confrontation (grabbing, minor scuffle), blood (split knuckles), yelling, emotional distress, explosive argument, sam intervening, unresolved tension, messy as hell

The fight starts somewhere around Kansas.

Or maybe it started hours ago and this is just the latest detour into hell.

Dean’s driving too fast. You’re talking too sharp. Sam’s in the passenger seat pretending to read a map that hasn’t been relevant since 2006.

“Always so goddamn reckless,” you mutter finally, mostly to yourself.

Dean glances at you in the rearview. “What?”

“I said, you're reckless. You dragged us into that job like we were bulletproof.”

“I got us out.”

“Barely.”

Dean doesn’t look at you. “And you always find a way to make it my fault.”

“Because nine times out of ten? It is.”

He scoffs. “Right. Sure. Everything’s on me.”

Silence.

Sam coughs awkwardly. “Maybe we could—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Dean say in unison.

The tension in the Impala could snap a neck.

Dean pulls into a gas station so fast the tires squeal.

Before he’s even thrown it into park, you’re yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind you—hard.

The sound echoes through the lot like a punch to the gut. It’s loud. Violent. Echoes through the lot.

Sam freezes in the passenger seat. He looks like his soul left his body.

Dean doesn’t move at first.

Then—

He opens his door calmly.

Steps out smoothly.

Shuts it carefully.

And then?

He storms.

No words.

No warnings.

Just rage, hot and simmering and silent.

You turn around to meet it. Chest heaving. Ready.

“What the hell did you just do?” he says, too quiet.

“What, the door?” you sneer. “Gonna cry over Baby’s feelings now?”

Dean steps closer. “Do that again. I dare you.”

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do? Scratch me with your loyalty tattoo?”

That’s when he grabs you—hand at your collar, shoving you back a step. It’s not gentle. Not playful. It’s pure fury. His eyes are wild, green gone dark.

Sam’s already scrambling out of the car. “Dean—!”

You shove Dean back with both hands. Hard. “Don’t you touch me.”

“You wanna throw punches now?” he growls. “Go ahead.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Give you an excuse to beat someone up without feeling bad after.”

Dean’s nostrils flare. “You think I need an excuse? You think this is about you?”

You step into his space again. “Everything is always about you, Dean. You make the call, you drive the car, you pick the hunt, and if someone bleeds, we’re just supposed to thank you for not killing us.”

Dean’s fists clench at his sides, shaking.

Sam’s between you both in a blink. “Hey! That’s enough. Both of you!”

Dean shoves past Sam, pacing a tight, violent circle like a caged animal. You stand there, chest heaving, hands still trembling from the adrenaline.

You don’t notice your knuckles are bleeding until Sam grabs your wrist. “Jesus, Y/N—”

“Let go of me.”

“You punched the pump handle,” Sam mutters, eyeing your busted hand. “You're bleeding like crazy.”

Dean turns back, still fuming. “Oh, so now it’s a show? You bleeding for drama, huh?”

You laugh, unhinged. “And you bleeding for validation?”

Sam steps between you again, hands raised. “Enough. Both of you are acting like lunatics.”

Dean looks at your bloodied hand and something in him flickers. It’s fast. Almost hidden. Guilt, maybe. Maybe something worse.

You wipe your hand on your jeans.

“Go to hell, Dean.”

He stares. Breathing like he just ran a mile with rage in his lungs.

Then he turns and stalks back to the car.

The door doesn’t slam this time.

It shuts quiet.

Controlled.

And somehow that’s worse.

Sam watches him go. Then turns to you.

“You done?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, chest still rising fast.

You don’t move for a long time.

And when you finally get back in the car—wrapped hand, cracked voice, silence thick between you—Dean doesn’t look at you.

But his knuckles?

They’re split too.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #d : handled with rage

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mylovesstuffs · 2 months ago

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learning to be loved after forgetting what it feels like to be safe.

🥕 bae-sically fake. yoon jeonghan

a mylovesstuffs production...

“one hundred days for what?” / “for me to woo you.”

synopsis. you swear when you made up your fake relationship, you didn't know that someone worked at the coffee shop with the same name or that your family would go to check it out. now everyone thinks you guys are actually together, and, well, pretending to be fake partners has never been so complicated. jeonghan plays along, and even offers you a deal—100 days to let him try and woo your closed-off heart.

pairing. yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

genre/s. fake dating au, modern au, bit of social media au (?), romance, comedy, slice of life, slow burn, emotional healing

status. upcoming [estimated: ~ 40k words]

content warnings. mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation, toxic ex, grooming mentioned [non-graphic but explicit reference], cheating and infidelity [past, non-graphic], mentions of underage grooming [girls legal but barely, predatory behavior], emotional trauma and flashbacks, ptsd-like emotional responses, manipulation disguised as affection [past], reference to stalking/following for confirmation of infidelity, heartbreak and betrayal, gaslighting implications [in past relationship], alcohol consumption, mild cursing/swearing, themes of grief and emotional vulnerability, soft romantic tension, no smut [so far; not written yet], emotionally guarded reader, indirect trauma references, workplace sexism [called out], fluffy but with realistic emotional baggage

will probably contain. fake dating, post-breakup healing, unexpected kindness, strangers-to-partners dynamic, deal-making [100 days to woo], soft and lover man!jeonghan, smart man!jeonghan protective best friends [celeste, seungkwan], healthy family, intense ex-relationship trauma, food symbolism [carrots, broccoli, lunches], slow emotional thawing, nice gestures [flowers, notes, meals], respect and gentle persistence, found family warmth, strong parent-daughter bond, work-life struggles, empowering ceo, flirtation, unspoken yearning, realistic emotional pacing [will be updated as chapters go on]

navigation/chapters & more under the cut ⟡

✦ navigation.

|| chapter one [wc: 14.4 k]

|| chapter two

|| chapter three

|| chapter four

last updated: 18.06.2025

querencia (spanish) /keh-REN-syah/ n. a place where one feels most at home; a source of strength and calm; a person or space where the soul feels safe without needing validation — often found not in places, but in people. “that name wasn’t meant to be a turning point, but somehow, it became hers — and he, her place.”

✦ in fiction we trust. love, celeste ˶ᵔ⤙ᵔ˶ so this fic is probably gonna be a long one [lmao oops] so i decided to split it into chapters. i’ve been wanting to explore some heavier themes for a while now [i promise, i kept it light], and this fic kind of became that space for me. despite the emotional grooming, infidelity, gaslighting, workplace sexism, and all that heavy stuff this fic touches on — one of the things i love most is that the reader has a genuinely healthy family. like actual supportive, emotionally present parents. and that’s something we don’t get to write often, so it means a lot to me. also the contrast between the two men… yeah. we’re gonna talk about that. and of course, we’ve got found family energy with the besties, so please look forward to their scenes too. also yes... i may or may not have written myself into the fic. yes it was intentional. yes i’m having fun with it 🤭

anyway that’s it for now. this fic went through a lot with me—emotionally and creatively—so i really hope you enjoy it and give it some love 🤍

started: 18.06.2025 — completed: dd.mm.yyyy

#svthub #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan seventeen #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x y/n #yoon jeonghan x reader #seventeen yoon jeonghan #yoon jeonghan imagines #yoon jeonghan smau #jeonghan smau #svt jeonghan #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen #jeonghan #★— mylovesstuffs twenty twenty five #★— mylovesstuffs

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amtrak12 · 2 years ago

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I'm also distracted because it's posting week for my fic again and it's the fake out reveal and I don't have the slightest idea how to prepare for the response because I thought I'd get a bunch of people freaking out when I revealed the chapter title last time and I got crickets. So are they going to be disappointed? Angry? Are they media savvy and smelled the fake out coming? Ideally it's the latter so they're more prepared to enjoy the ride, but some good-natured 'gotcha' moments doesn't hurt the readers either. But I don't even know they'll take it as good-natured. I don't even know if they care! Are all my readers seriously school-aged and that's why my comments fell off last update? Or was chapter 7 just boring? idk :|

#would really love to not require fic comments to feel validated and seen #alas that's not how my brain is currently wired #But in my defense when you pour your heart and soul into a fic like this chock full of all these tiny details that are screaming #Do you see how much I love these characters??? Do you see my vision???#you kind of want someone to shout back AAAHH I DO AND IT'S AMAZING!#and I do have a couple of people doing that! There are definitely at least 2 living breathing people who see my vision and love it #and then I have a handful more who don't really see it yet but are willing to keep reading which is also good #but then there's this HUGE passive reader base that gives me nothing #Why do I have over 200 separate AO3 accounts subscribed to get email notifications when I post a new chapter #but then only get 7 new comments on said chapter?#7 #Not even 0.5% of the subscribers want to comment?#:( That's... disheartening #It's disheartening #okay I can't math when I'm tired and spiraling #7 comments is 3% of my subscriber count so at least it's multiple whole percents #still feels horribly low though :(

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gav-san · 1 month ago

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Cosmic Joke: Portgas D. Ace

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

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Oneshot: Ace x Reader Length: 14 K+ Rating: 16+

Having Ace as a soulmate is like dating a clingy campfire with feelings. He’s loud, loyal, and fully prepared to self-immolate if you so much as shiver, mentally or physically. He’s been obsessed since puberty—and yes, he still thinks spontaneous combustion is a valid love language. “If my soulmate’s cold, I’ll just set myself on fire. Easy fix.” Now you are scared and cold.

Character Suggestion by @dead-cipher

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

A03 Link

-Bond Awakening-

It started innocently enough.

You are normal. At least, you try to be. You pay your taxes (when applicable), respect your elders (unless they’re creeps), and only scream into your pillow when absolutely necessary. You grew up in a modest village where nothing exciting ever happened—except, of course, for the fact that you’ve had a pirate in your head since age six.

You’re aggressively normal. You like toast. You do your taxes early. You read books in quiet corners and have strong opinions about brand-name toothpaste. You are average with a capital A.

At first, the bond felt innocent enough. There were brief flickers of emotion, bits of curiosity, and the occasional overwhelming urge to punch something and then apologize to it.

Then the voice started speaking in full sentences; chaotic, unfiltered, and alarmingly sincere.

“I hope he knows I love him even if I punched him. In the face.”

“If I die, I want to die doing something cool. Like falling into lava to save a kitten.”

“Do whales get lonely?”

“If I set this on fire and run away fast enough, technically it’s not my fault.”

A loud voice. With zero filter. And no self-preservation instinct.

It wasn’t just thoughts. You had vivid dreams of eating everything within a fifty-mile radius. You’d wake up laughing at jokes you never told. Or screaming, because some distant, invisible dumbass decided to fight a Sea King at age ten.

You knew what it meant. The telepathic thread had been there since childhood. Most people got soft hums of emotion, the occasional comforting whisper.

“Oi, how many push-ups does it take to break a tree?” “I should punch that guy. No reason. Just vibes.” “If I die young, bury me in meat.”

His name, as you eventually piece together through years of one-sided nonsense, is Ace.

Full name?

Portgas D. Ace

You’re just a normal, average person with a skincare routine and a deathly fear of taxes. Which is exactly why the universe, in its infinite humor, decided to tether your soul to Ace. He’s a human wildfire with the emotional processing skills of a stray golden retriever and the attention span of a sunburned raccoon.

His hobbies include: eating until death seems imminent, throwing hands with gods and warlords, spontaneous arson, and emotionally repressing every feeling that isn’t hunger or homicidal loyalty.

You’ve never met him. But you’ve heard him. He doesn’t know you exist. But you know him.

You know he doesn’t believe in soulmates. You know he eats like a vacuum. You know he cries alone at night and pretends he doesn’t. You know he got his first tattoo on a dare. And unfortunately… You also know that he once set a spider on fire to impress someone. (He regrets it. The spider haunted him in a dream. He whispered an apology three years later.)

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut

Age 7: "Do you think seagulls ever get depressed?" You were in math class. Trying to learn multiplication tables. Your soulmate, somewhere out there, was staring into the ocean like a tiny, unmedicated philosopher with a flair for existential bird-based melancholy.

You blinked. Raised your hand. Asked to use the bathroom. Sat on the toilet and whispered, “What?”

Age 8: "If I became a pirate, do you think they’d let me keep my blanket?" It was a sincere question. It made your heart ache. Not because it was sweet, but because you realized your soulmate was already planning his outlaw era.

Age 10: “If I get eaten by a sea king, tell Luffy I died hot.”

You were sitting in the back of the library, hunched over a weathered copy of Advanced Multiplication, when the voice echoed across your skull with all the solemnity of a soldier’s final words.

You blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

The voice—his voice—sounded older now. Still boyish, still rough around the edges, but with the kind of melodramatic resignation only a twelve-year-old could muster with such commitment. He sounded like someone who’d stared death in the face and decided to make it weird.

You turned the page. Pretended not to hear.

Other children had imaginary friends. You had this.

A borderline-delinquent who philosophized about death, grilled fish, and sea birds like they were moral arbiters of heaven and hell. A boy with a voice like fire and laughter, who once gave you a blow-by-blow breakdown of how to win a fistfight with a wild boar. He narrated everything. Bad decisions. Petty theft. Emotional spirals. The occasional hallucination.

You never answered. Not once. You were practiced. Well-trained. Unshakable.

But fate, as it often does, waited patiently to make you suffer.

-The Cold War-

Age 13:

It began with a whisper. Then a crackle. Then—suddenly, violently—“BOOBS.”

You choked mid-sip of your tea. Nearly stabbed yourself with your own pencil. The word reverberated in your head like a cannon blast, unfiltered and aggressively enthusiastic. There was silence. A stunned, terrible silence.

And then his voice, slightly breathless and awestruck: “I just… wow. That bartender was built like a miracle. Do you think she noticed me? Should I have said something? Was ‘You have nice elbows’ too weird?”

You sat motionless at the kitchen table, pencil still mid-stroke in a math equation you would never, ever finish. You could feel your soul physically detaching from your body.

Almost seven years. Seven. Seven years of absurdity. Of hunger rants. Of emotional crises about clouds that looked like parental neglect. Of vivid psychic broadcasts of every single dumb fight, scar, and mood swing.

But this? This crossed a line.

You stood. Slowly. Like a woman wronged. Marched outside. And screamed into the dirt like an ancient priestess channeling divine rage.

Somewhere, far away, a bird fell out of a tree from secondhand embarrassment.

“NO!” you yelled into the sky, fists clenched. “YOU DO NOT GET TO BE HORNY AND STUPID. PICK ONE!”

And somewhere, across sea and wind and sky— He heard you.

A pause. A stunned intake of breath.

“…Wait,” his voice said, softer now. “That was you. You talked. You’re real. Oh my god, who are you? Tell me your name. Tell me your location. I’ll find you. I swear—I’ll find you.”

You didn’t scream again. You didn’t cry. You didn’t faint. You simply answered, tone flat and final:

“No. I’m retracting my existence. Goodbye.”

And then you slammed the door—metaphysically, psychically, spiritually—and mentally filed a full restraining order against fate.

He did not take it well.

“Was it the boob thing? I swear I respect women. I mean—I don’t not notice them, but I’m not, like, a pervert. Just observational. Please respond. I haven’t eaten in four hours. I don’t know why that matters, but emotionally it feels important.”

You do not.

“If I die of heartbreak and/or starvation, tell Luffy I—wait. You already know. I died hot.”

By day four, he’d reached the melodramatic stage of soulmate grief.

“I’ve named the seagull that keeps following me. His name is Betrayal.”

You ignored him. You hardened your mind like iron. Practiced psychic silence like a religion.

But some nights, when the world was quiet and your guard slipped, you still felt the flicker of him at the edge of your thoughts: warm, restless, and ridiculous.

And once—just once—you heard him whisper through the bond, low and serious, voice heavy with something new.

“Please just let me know you’re okay. I’ll wait–”

You didn’t reply. Not then. But after the quiet way he whispered I’ll wait like a vow instead of a threat—you found yourself staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Overthinking. Trying very hard not to care.

And failing.

Just a little.

Eventually, grudgingly, with the emotional grace of someone returning to a party they swore they left forever…you let him back in. Not fully. Not warmly. Not with words so much as intention. But with conditions.

He wasn’t allowed to interrupt test days. No horny thoughts before noon. Absolutely no narrating your dreams back to you with commentary like, “Whoa, that one had symbolism.” And if he wanted to share his feelings, he had to at least pretend to have emotional self-awareness.

Naturally, he ignored all of this.

You became a master of selective tuning. His chaotic thoughts drifted through your mind like white noise: background nonsense you could mute with a blink. You mastered the sacred art of psychic eye-rolls.

He, in turn, began calling you “Mystery Babe” when you humored him and “Invisible Gremlin” when you roasted him into the dirt. You answered once in a blue moon. Just enough to ruin his day.

Like, “You fell off that cliff because you tried to flirt mid-backflip. Not because the ground betrayed you.”

Or, “Your idea of stealth is shouting ‘this way, boys’ at full volume.”

Or, worst of all: “I don’t dream about you. You sound like you smell like firewood and have impulse control issues.”

And Ace? He lost his entire damn mind. Delightfully. Publicly. Apocalyptically.

He became obsessed. Utterly, wildly, romantically feral.

Because now he knew you were out there. Real. Sharp. Hidden. The girl who outsmarted fate, ghosted destiny, and occasionally replied just to hand him his own ego on a silver platter.

You weren’t sweet. You weren’t eager. You weren’t simping.

You were just mean enough to be hot.

Like a mirage that tells you to hydrate and die.

And it was ruining him.

His crewmates noticed immediately.

“Is Ace talking to himself again?” “No, he’s arguing with his soulmate.” “…Does she answer?” “Only to mock him.”

They started calling you The Phantom. Deuce took bets on whether you were real. Skull tried to flirt with the empty air once and got psychically blasted with, “Not you, oil-slick.”

By week three of your emotionally distant reappearance, Ace had declared—loudly, mid-fight, while on fire, “I don’t need to find the One Piece. I need to find my soulmate, so I can formally apologize for my horny teenage brain and then ask them to punch me in the face.”

There was silence.

Then the enemy captain nodded solemnly. “That’s valid,” he said, before Ace knocked him out. And honestly? Probably the most emotionally mature thing Ace had ever said.

And you almost responded. Almost. But instead… You smiled. And went back to ignoring him.

Age 15:

“I’m gonna fight this volcano. I’ve got it. No regrets.”

It came in loud and proud, mid-afternoon. You were standing in line at the pharmacy, waiting for cold medicine, when your soulmate decided to challenge a natural disaster to a duel.

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. He kept going.

“If it kills me, bury me with snacks. And a sword. Even if I didn’t have one. Just for the drama.” You pressed your fingers to your temples like you could pinch the psychic connection out of existence.

He was persistent. And worse, he was charming.

In the most idiotic, reckless, infuriatingly loyal golden retriever way imaginable.

He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t smooth. He was a walking campfire with sass and a dangerously low number of self-preservation instincts.

You were not speaking, but still, he talked to you.

“If I ever meet you, I hope you hate me at first,” he said once, quieter than usual. “That way, I can earn it. I wanna earn it.”

“I’d probably ruin your life,” he admitted another time. “But like… nicely?”

“Maybe you don’t exist. Maybe I got the broken kind of bond.”

And then, worst of all, the one that landed like a stone in your chest: “If you’re real, I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

You hate that he sounds sincere.

Age 16:

You are entirely convinced this man should be institutionalized.

You learn to live around him. You train your face not to react when he narrates his internal monologues mid-battle. You do not try to talk back. You’ve heard what happens when soulmates do that. It's called “dumbass feedback loop.” Two people yelling in each other’s heads until someone faints.

Instead, you simply exist. Quietly. Carefully. You’re old enough to drop out of school and change locations, which you do, and often. Use fake names. Pick villages with low foot traffic. Avoid taverns where Wanted Posters hang.

Ace, for his part, is infuriated by this.

He doesn’t know who you are. Doesn’t know where you are. Can’t even figure out your gender for the first ten years. He only knows you exist because he keeps trying to scream into the void, and you never scream back.

Which, of course, drives him completely insane.

He grows up.

You do too. You get better at tuning him out.

Until one day.

“I think I’m being followed. That guy has weird teeth. I might punch him. If I die, sorry, soulmate. I wish I had kissed someone.”

You freeze. Because it’s the first time he’s said anything that sounded like a goodbye. You don’t respond, and you find the words can’t break the door you’ve built open. But you stay up all night anyway. Eyes on the ceiling. Fingernails biting your palms.

The next day?

He’s fine.

“That guy was weird, but I gave him my sandwich. He cried. I cried. We’re friends now.”

You sob into your pillow.

Ace, Age 17:

“Okay, look. If you’re real. If you’re out there. Just… tap something. Whisper. Blink twice mentally.”

You: (mentally blinking once, for spite)

You become excellent at mental firewalling. He starts testing you.

“Do you like meat? Just tell me that. I won’t track you down. Probably. If you don’t respond in 3 seconds, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and go commit arson in your honor.”

Eventually, he starts talking to you the way people talk to their diaries; with sarcasm and later, sincerity.

That’s when things get complicated.

Because, behind all the reckless noise and weird thoughts about trying to headbutt a sea emperor, there’s this ache. This softness you weren’t expecting. He starts wondering out loud if he deserves a soulmate. Starts apologizing when he’s angry. Tells you about Luffy, about Sabo, and his untimely death (you sob for hours). About the fire in his chest that never quite goes out.

He doesn't even know you're listening.

And you wish you weren’t.

Because now it hurts. Now you want to answer.

But you don’t. You can’t. You know what kind of people hunt soulmates, especially ones with D. in their name. If the Navy finds you, they’ll use you. If pirates find you, they’ll sell you. And if Ace finds you?

...You don’t know what he’d do. But it’d probably involve grinning, dramatic declarations, and upsetting explosions.

So, instead, you run. You hide. You exist in the margins. You watch from the edges of the news whenever you hear about Whitebeard’s crew. You silently cheer when you read about them protecting islands and sinking slaver ships.

You almost cry the first time Ace calls you “my tether.” And then he follows it with “which sounds weird and kinda kinky, but spiritually accurate.”

You throw a spoon across the room.

You talk to him for the first time—really talk to him—when you’re seventeen.

It’s been eleven years of chaotic background noise. Of pirate shenanigans, shirtless bragging, impromptu wrestling matches, and unsolicited thoughts about meat, knives, ghosts, fire, and, occasionally, emotional devastation disguised as jokes.

You’ve learned to compartmentalize him. A psychic raccoon rummaging around your mental trash cans. Sometimes loud, sometimes weirdly insightful. Always there.

But that year?

That’s the year you hear him cry.

You don’t even know what triggers it. You’re just heading home, a basket of bread in one hand, the sun warm on your shoulders, when suddenly the world goes sideways.

“Why does it keep happening?”

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s broken. Quiet. He’s not performing. Not cracking jokes. Just sitting somewhere, talking to no one. Maybe himself.

Maybe you.

“I keep losing everyone.” A breath. “First Sabo. Now the Spade Pirates.” He swallows hard. You feel it in your ribs. “I try to be good. But…”

Silence.

Then the whisper that shatters something soft in your chest:

“...Maybe I don’t deserve anyone.”

You stop walking.

Right there. In the middle of the road. The wind is gentle. Your throat is not.

You hesitate. For too long. Long enough to almost let it pass.

“You do.”

The word is small. Just one. But it slams into him like a cannonball.

“WH—NO WAY.” His voice skyrockets into disbelief. “You talked again! You—you heard all of that?! Forget it! UNHEAR IT. I sounded like a tragic romance novel. I need a redo.”

You roll your eyes.

“You sounded like a dumbass in pain. Which is slightly better than your usual dumbass setting.”

“Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

He doesn’t.

“Wait—WAIT—this is real. You’re real. You’re not dead or a voice invented by head trauma or—wait, you’re not a tree, right? I once emotionally confessed to a tree. It didn’t answer.”

You sigh. Pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I am not a tree. You absolute himbo.”

He makes a sound like he’s been physically electrocuted with joy. And just like that, Ace starts beaming across your bond. Not literally, but it feels like light. Like heat. Like a bonfire on a cold night that you didn’t realize you’d needed.

“This is the best day of my life. Please marry me. Or at least tell me your name. Or insult me again. I’d take any of those.”

You don’t give him your name. Not yet.

But you do say, “I’m not ready for you to find me.”

He pauses. Then softens.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ve got time. Just don’t disappear again, alright?”

-Emotional Fallout-

Age 18:

Ace joins something called ‘The Whitebeard Pirates’.

You quietly wonder if it’s a strip club or a cult.

But now, you’re curious, committed, and listening at metaphoric windows in his mind palace. The crack in your own mental door widens. Just enough that you know unconsciously are transmitting some spare thoughts.

Enough that you may accidentally transmit more details than you intend.

It’s not a scream. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even a thought meant for him. It’s a snort. Of all things. A quiet, private, mental snort of disbelief.

You’ve spent your whole life avoiding him.

And honestly? You’ve been excellent at it.

Fake names. Remote towns. A personal blacklist of any island that’s ever whispered “Whitebeard.” You were disciplined. Focused. Determined not to let your soulmate ruin your peace.

Because you knew too much.

You’d heard his thoughts since childhood—unfiltered, uninvited, and deeply, profoundly stupid. You’d heard him fart. Cry. Argue with seagulls. Wonder aloud if crabs feel jealousy. You’d built up a mental image of a human raccoon with fire powers and the emotional depth of a wet sock.

And for years, that was fine.

Until today.

When you see it, you’re at a sleepy little port, casually browsing a message board for work. A wanted poster with a familiar name.

You glance. Just a peek.

And freeze.

Name: Portgas D. Ace.

Bounty: Irrelevant.

Expression: A curl at this lips lifting up like sin.

The creature is hot.

And a pirate.

But more important— He’s unethically hot. Shirt-open, jaw-sharp, lean-muscle, freckles-like-a-gift-from-God hot.

You envisioned a gremlin with muscles and zero self-preservation. You expected a 6-foot-tall disaster man held together by ego, duct tape, and barbecue sauce.

But this?

And he is divine punishment in man form. Shirt half-buttoned (barely). Freckles like stardust. Muscles that have never known a shirt that fits. A smile that should be federally regulated.

And dimples. Dimples.

He looks like he rolled out of a bonfire, forgot what a brush is, and still makes grown adults walk into walls. He looks like someone who would text “You up?” at 2 AM, and mean it platonically, then absolutely ruin your life in bed.

You sit on a bench. You stare at the poster. The wind rustles. Somewhere, someone sneezes.

You mutter, “Oh no. He’s hot. I am so screwed.”

Because now there’s a problem.

You’ve spent over a decade building immunity to his personality.

But no one prepared you for the smoulder.

And the worst part?

He feels it.

Ace is halfway through fighting a sea king when it hits. He literally pauses mid-punch.

“Holy crap,” he whispers. “They noticed me.”

Marco looks up. “Who?”

“My soulmate thinks I’m hot.”

He beams like the sun just kissed him. He fights a sea king out of pure euphoria. He gives a romantic speech to a palm tree.

And when he laughs—low and rough, like warm honey with a death wish—your brain short-circuits.

And he lets you have it.

“Hey!” Even his mentally transmitted voice is a problem. Sleep-rough and smug, “Miss me, baby? Bet you were thinking about me again. Don’t lie—I felt it. You feel really pretty in your head. Want me to walk you through it again?”

You tried everything.

Cold showers. Meditation. Punching someone for fun.

Nothing works.

Because Ace is a wildfire in human skin and bad decisions.

And worst of all?

He knows.

“I’ll let you touch the V-line if you say please.”

You’ve considered hurling yourself overboard more than once. But unfortunately, Ace can swim in your head. And he’s always shirtless when he gets there. You’ve moved ten times. Changed names. Changed continents.

Ace? Unbothered. Thriving. Intensifying. He starts taking notes. (They’re mostly unreadable. But it’s the effort.) He’s narrowed it down. He knows you’re alive and that you move often. That you’ve been dodging fate with Olympic-level skill.

He’s not mad.

He’s impressed.

“You’ve been dodging destiny like a pro. Damn. Marry me.” Now he daydreams about meeting you mid-brawl. Or during a cursed artifact heist.

Or stealing the same apple off a rooftop and locking eyes like, “So… this is awkward.”

He doesn’t want a perfect moment. He wants you. Your weird live-stock obsessed brain and all.

And you? You still think he’s reckless, loud, and infuriating. But… maybe…Just maybe…He’s exactly your kind of problem.

Wait. WAIT.

You reel back.

He gets slapped into a rock. He barely notices. He is too busy grinning like a moron.

That’s it.

That’s the moment he decides: He is going to find you.

Before, it was passive curiosity. Now? It’s an obsession. Amusement. Intrigue. Hope.

Someone sarcastic. Someone real. Someone who thinks he’s an idiot (correct). Someone who sounds more like a human person than a divine blessing.

He’s doomed.

He starts doing things he never used to do. Asking questions. Collecting rumors. Not of his soulmate, because no one knows what he’s after, but about soulmates, connections, and how the hell does anyone find each other if they don’t want to?

You dyed your hair the moment his emotional compass started pinging your hometown. You moved when he began fantasizing about coastal bars.

You became an urban legend. The myth. The whisper. That one girl who’s just not answering back.

Somewhere out there, your soulmate has a reputation. He’s one of those with A Silent Bond’. Pirates dare him to try to find you. He drinks too much sometimes and mutters, “She’s real. I know she is.” Someone once asked if maybe you died.

He said, “She didn’t. She’s just better at this than me.”

And you are.

But lately, the voice has been quiet. Too quiet.

Which is why, one night, halfway through brushing your teeth, a warm, raspy thought slips into your skull like a dagger wrapped in velvet, "I think I found your hometown, but you’re already gone...You win… this time. But if I see you, I’m still keeping you."

And you choke on your toothbrush.

The next mistake in your proverbial abode being invaded comes quickly.

He first catches a glimpse of you by accident. And it ruins him for days.

The bond has always been mostly one-sided. Him shouting into the abyss, you offering the occasional snarky whisper like some irritated brain ghost with boundary issues. You’ve never slipped. You’ve never let anything real through.

Until that day.

You were distracted. Tired. In the middle of patching a leak in your roof, your arms are covered in sap, and your soul is covered in rage because the only thing worse than your soulmate yelling about meat in your head is leaky ceilings during monsoon season.

And then, just for a flicker, you thought something too loudly.

You didn’t mean to. You were yelling internally about your ladder being possessed and made of evil wood spirits. You were furious with gravity. You were sweaty, sore, and covered in twigs.

And then, like a crack in a door.

He sees you.

Not fully. Just a snapshot, like the first page of a dream:

Sunlight streaking through wet leaves. Your face in half-shadow, eyes squinting up at a broken shingle. A smear of dirt across your cheek. Mouth pressed flat in focus. Your hand raised to swipe your brow, wrist wrapped in a red ribbon that was probably nothing but made his whole chest ache.

And worst of all: You are beautiful.

Not like the kind of “hot” he was always joking about. Not bartender-curvy or saloon-pretty or the fantasy women his crewmates dreamt up. You looked real.

Solid.

Warm.

Like someone he could come home to.

It knocked the breath out of him.

“...Whoa.”

The whisper was involuntary. Barely a word. More like a reverent exhale.

On your side, you froze.

Because you felt it.

You felt the moment he saw. The way the tether between your minds trembled, like it had finally aligned. Like it was no longer just a voice.

It had eyes. And they saw you.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, a little broken. “You’re real. You’re—”

You smacked the bond shut.

So hard, it echoed.

You didn’t talk to him again for two weeks.

And Ace?

Ace spent those two weeks walking around like a man hit by divine lightning.

He tried drawing your face from memory. Failed. Got angry. Started sketching again. Asked Thatch if he’d ever had a religious experience involving a hammer-wielding forest nymph and a red ribbon.

Everyone thought he was concussed.

Marco eventually sat him down and asked if he'd been cursed by a wood sprite. Ace just stared at the table and whispered, “She’s incredible.” And because he’s somehow managed to wedge a figurative foot in the door jam, he gets more glimpses.

It happens at night.

You’re alone, exhausted, curled up in a too-small bed on a too-small island that doesn’t even have proper plumbing. There’s a storm outside, thunder heavy and close, and you’ve been pretending all day that you aren’t upset.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You lie there, trembling. Not with fear. Just with the quiet, suffocating ache of trying to stay strong all the time. And that’s when your thoughts falter.

You let your guard drop.

Across the sea, Ace jolts upright.

Because suddenly, you’re there.

Not a thought. Not a quip. Another glance.

Like a flash through water. You. In the dark. Hunched over your own arms. Quietly crying into a pillow.

Not sobbing. Not loud.

Just… cracking.

Soft and honest and completely unguarded. The window next to your bed is cracked open. The candle is burning low. Your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to the world.

You don’t even think of his name. But you feel him. And that’s worse.

And he feels everything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

For once, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches in that stolen second, completely still, as his chest fills with something heavy, protective, and utterly unhinged.

He sees you. The real you.

Not just the sharp voice. Not the teasing distance. But the person beneath it all. Fragile. Furious. Lonely.

“You don’t feel safe,” he realizes. “You don’t feel safe anywhere.”

You snap the bond shut again the second you feel him. It slams so hard he physically stumbles back on the deck of the Moby Dick.

“Hey—! No, wait—!”

Silence.

He doesn’t chase the bond. Not right away. He just sits there, staring into the storm, heart pounding like a drum.

And then, very softly, he whispers to no one.

“You don’t ever have to be alone again, you know. Not with me.”

You huff in annoyance, trying to pull the mental shutters down like you're closing a damn window, but no matter how much you lock them, he's still there, pressing against the edges of your thoughts like he's trying to squeeze through a crack. And damn it, it’s working. His mental presence fills the spaces you’ve tried so hard to keep him out of, and now you can’t stop yourself from giving him all these little snippets of your mind, no matter how much you want to.

And goddamn it, when he decides to stay on your stoop, refusing to budge, there's only so much you can do—the nerve of him. There’s something oddly endearing about how he doesn’t back off, even when your mental voice tells him to just leave. He likes hearing your rambling nonsense, which makes you even more annoyed.

But it’s not just that. It’s the gems he’s pulling from you now. The stupid thoughts you can’t quite hide. Like that one, for example. You thought, just for a second, that the man who joined the Whitebeard's crew was somehow more interested in your bond, for the social aspect of it all. Like maybe he'd just stumbled into your mental space for the friendship and sweet, sweet no-escape bonding time, right?

It’s not completely irrational, right? Maybe a little delusional, but not out there. A guy that big with all that muscle? You really didn’t expect him to fit the “faithful romantic hero” trope—especially with “pirate” as his job title. He’s probably out there throwing hands and other things in every port he visits.

And every time something even remotely flirtatious crosses his mind, you bolt like your brain’s on fire, diving into farm animal facts just to avoid that embarrassing knowledge about what his hormones are up to behind closed doors.

He’s just not interested in you, carnally at least. Why would he be? You’re... you. He’s a famous pirate, a literal fire-bending golden retriever with abs and a fleet. He’s probably got a sexy fishwoman in every port. Hell, you'd fold for a sexy fishwoman, so why shouldn’t he?

But of course, he chooses the worst possible time to clarify. While you’re shopping. In public.

A thought slams into your brain like a meteor dipped in honey and sin.

“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

You physically jolt, and the egg vendor takes a step back. “You good?”

You nod, staring into the void. Because that voice—the one you haven’t heard in weeks—is suddenly awake. Smug. Dangerous.

“Not interested?...Not interested?”

A beat of silence.

“You’ve been dodging me for years like a criminal with a crush. You flinched when you saw my poster. You think I didn’t feel that spark? I felt your thirst, babe. It came through like a punch to the solar plexus.”

You grip the egg basket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You think I’m not interested? I’ve been tracking your emotional wreckage like a lovesick bloodhound with ADHD and a lighter.”

And then, of course, he gets descriptive.

Vivid. Uncomfortably so.

Your knees buckle a little.

“The things I could do if you’d just sit still for five damn minutes,” He practically screams, “And stop thinking about goats. Or cows. Or whatever weird barnyard tangent you go off on when you panic.”

You mentally scream, LIVESTOCK IS A COMFORTING TOPIC, and he laughs out loud in your brain.

It’s a warm, rough laugh that slides down your spine like a sin you weren’t ready to commit.

You drop your eggs.

And he keeps going.

“You think I’m not interested? Baby, I’ve imagined every version of you. Sarcastic. Half-dressed. Mud-covered. Covered in nothing but one of my shirts and bad intentions.”

Your ears go red.

“I’ve had to apologize to my crew for zoning out during a sea battle because you accidentally had a fantasy about kissing someone else. I almost torched an island.”

You drop your entire egg basket this time. Gone, like your dignity.

You storm home.

Slamming the door behind you, you flop onto your bed and shout into a pillow,

“STOP DOING THAT!”

You hear him reply, far too smug,

“Only if you stop pretending you don’t want me to.”

You assumed he was a eunuch. Fair. No normal man could be that energetic, that unhinged, that relentless without sacrificing something vital. There was no way a person who routinely set himself on fire for fun had enough blood left in his body to maintain… well, anything.

You’d once muttered aloud—after a particularly violent surge of his soul-linked thoughts.

“If this lunatic isn’t a eunuch, I’ll eat my shoe.”

To which the voice responded, chipper as ever, “Well, hope it’s chocolate-flavored, sweetheart, because I’m very much not a eunuch.” You rolled your eyes. Typical. He’d flirt with a cactus. It didn’t mean anything. But then, just after you bathed, exhausted and trying to sleep, he struck again.

The vivid mental image. Unsolicited. Graphic. Uncomfortably detailed. And so clear, it might as well have been seared directly onto the backs of your eyelids.

He wasn’t just not a eunuch. He was… a menace.

“Still think I’m not working, baby? Want me to describe how I’d use my very functional anatomy, or do you want a slideshow? Actually, hang on—let me tilt the angle. You’re not appreciating the scale.”

You tried to block him. You really did. But Ace had never once been deterred by logic, shame, or psychic boundaries. If anything, he doubled down.

“Hey, you’re the one who said I was built like a vending machine. Just thought I’d show you the snacks.”

You hated him. You hated how hot he sounded.

Hated that he was now giving himself full permission to know just how feral he was.

“Five minutes, sweetheart.

He could do things if you just sat still for five minutes.

He says it like a threat. Like a promise. Like he’s been waiting.

And you know he means it. Because every time you try to ignore him—every time you stubbornly pretend he’s not whispering sinful nonsense in your brain—he doubles down.

“Five minutes, sweetheart. That’s all I need. No interruptions, no running, no sassing. Just you, breathless and mine.”

You scoffed at first. Called him delusional. Told him to go flirt with a rock.

But Ace?

Ace just purred.

“See, look at how you're so pent up, baby. I told you. Five minutes, baby. Sit still, and I’ll show you what it feels like when someone actually knows you.”

His words crawl through your mind like fire, igniting every nerve. You try to push them away, but it's useless. Ace has never been one to leave you alone, not when he’s this determined.

He’s not just talking. He’s implying, and it’s maddening. You could feel it in the way he speaks, like every word is a thread pulling you closer to something you know you’re not ready for.

But god, part of you wonders if you’re wrong. What would it feel like to finally just give in? To stop pretending you aren’t as affected as he’s been telling you?

You’re teetering on the edge. One more push, and you’ll fall.

The worst part? You’re already halfway there.

“I’ve been dreaming about you for years. I’ve had practice.”

It’s maddening. Every time he gets quiet, you miss him. Every time he returns, you want to strangle him.

And now you’re terrified. Because someday, inevitably, you’re going to sit still. Just for five minutes.

And if there’s one thing you are when you’re mad and emotionally cornered, it’s petty as hell. You ghosted this man for the sin of saying boobies. Now, for trying to mentally fondle yours? You’re going nuclear.

So, you go on dates. Ace live-commentates them in your head like a sports announcer with ADHD.

“Bro. His hands are sweaty. You gonna kiss that? Ask him who his favorite pirate is. If it’s not me, stab him. What is this guy’s deal with anchovies? Are you safe??”

-Branching Out?-

You tried. Honestly, you really tried.

But you’re done. Emotionally. Mentally. Hormonally.

You’ve spent your entire adolescence haunted by the gremlin thoughts of a pirate you’ve never met. You’ve heard his opinions on soup, his guilty cries over cartoons, and more than one deeply concerning mental image involving rope.

So, you decide—quietly, pettily, desperately—that you’re going to break the bond by seducing a perfectly nice, boring man with great shoulders and zero mess.

Everything is set.

You’re wearing something cute but functional. You’ve got dinner plans. The guy is sweet. Polite. Zero war crimes. You even lit a candle, for atmosphere.

You’re about to lean in and kiss him when—

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

Ace’s voice slams into your skull like a full-volume spiritual airhorn.

You blink.

The nice man asks if you’re okay, looking at you like you might suddenly sprout a second head.

You smile. Politely. Internally, you are SCREAMING.

“NOPE. UNACCEPTABLE. THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE HE APOLOGIZES BEFORE HE CUMS. IS THIS BECAUSE I MENTIONED THE CRAB DREAM? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS MIDDLE NAME—DOES HE EVEN HAVE ONE? WHAT IF IT’S TERRY?”

You try to push him out. Focus. The man touches your hand gently.

“I WILL SET HIM ON FIRE. I HAVE FIRE HANDS.”

You exhale slowly and say aloud, “Please don’t set him on fire.”

The man blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It is not nothing. It is a Sun God with no boundaries, loudly critiquing your sexual choices.

“I swear to GOD if he touches your waistband I’m going to hex his bloodline into extinction.”

You try again. Focus.

The man leans forward. He kisses your neck. It’s fine. It’s… nice.

And in your head?

“I HOPE HE FALLS OFF A DOCK TOMORROW AND GETS STUNG BY A SPITEFUL SHRIMP. YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIS HAIR. YOU’RE JUST DOING THIS OUT OF SPITE. YOU MONSTER. PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON BEFORE I WRITE A POEM ABOUT YOU OUT LOUD AND GET TATTOOED IN YOUR HONOR.”

The worst part?

You’re laughing. On your own bed. At the same time, a very confused man is gently trying to undo your shirt.

He stops, blinking. “Uh... are you... Okay?”

You wave him off. “It’s not you. I’m—ha—just mentally haunted.”

He leaves.

Kindly.

With a respectful bow (And possibly some trauma).

Two minutes later, Ace is smug and insufferable.

“So. Virginity status: Intact. Thanks to me. You're welcome. I’m a public service, honestly. Now that we’ve established that, can you PLEASE just let me take care of this properly and not with whatever beige sponge you dragged out of the alleyway?”

You groan.

He whistles.

“That better not have been a moan unless it was for me.”

You lie there glare at the ceiling, rage simmering.

“Don’t be mad,” Ace said, smug and unrepentant. “It’s not my fault you’re mine…And if I have to monologue in your head for six hours straight to keep you from letting some weak-jawed idiot put his hands on you, I will. Seriously, babe. All I’m asking is for you to wait until I can ruin you properly.”

You nearly screamed. Again.

And because you're a petty bitch with no control over things anymore, you decide to become mean. After all, it’s the only weapon left in your emotional arsenal.

You shut him out. Well, you try to. But you know it’s a cold war now. It’s inevitable. And your first strike? Completely accidental. As you stew in your indignation, a thought slips out—just a little too loud in your head.

“You’re like a damn stray dog that can’t stop following me. You’re lucky I don’t just leave you in the middle of the alley behind the Shimotsuki market and let the cats handle you.” You send a strong mental image of the said alley just to rub it in his face.

There’s a long, tense silence.

You feel something, but it’s so fleeting you can’t quantify it until he doesn’t reply.

Radio silence.

You’ve hurt his feelings.

You assumed he was pouting.

Which, to be fair, is on brand. He feels like the kind of man who would sulk about you not liking the exact ratio of buttons on his open shirt.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself this was good. Mental distance was good. Silence was peace. You didn’t need the constant horny peanut gallery in your brain, anyway.

You could finally focus. You could finally think.

You could finally wear skirts without worrying about mental commentary like: “Babe. That hemline? You’re gonna cause weather.”

And because you're a certified bitch, you can’t casually reach out. That’s what you tell yourself, anyhow.

You didn’t know how to reach out. You didn’t even want to. You just kept your mental door cracked open a titch and hoped he was somewhere being dramatic about the situation with a drink in hand.

But of course, that’s not what happened.

-The Slip Up-

He was not pouting.

He was tracking you.

Because here’s the thing. That little “alleyway” verbal slap and mental image of a sad little garbage can? That wasn’t just a mean thought. You hadn’t realized it, but you had just transmitted an image of your direct location straight to him.

It was a soul-bond breadcrumb. A signal flare. A bullseye on your very mortal, very sexy location.

And Ace? Ace is a feral golden retriever with boobs radar and emotional tunnel vision.

The second you let that thought leak? He started sailing.

You don’t know any of this.

You’re still sitting there, pretending you don’t care, when in reality, you’ve unknowingly painted a target on yourself. You don’t know that Ace, with his relentless persistence, is already closing in.

You have no idea that the moment your mental slip happened, he was already at the helm of his ship, grinning like a maniac.

And you’re still sitting there, blissfully unaware, believing that silence is your reluctant victory.

-Home Invasion-

A month later, he finally, finally speaks.

“Hey.”

You don’t answer. Is it because you were relieved and had tears in your eyes? Of course not, and if it were true, you wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course, you’re outside, being a human being and trying to be normal, so you look like a loon.

You glance around the street like someone’s going to see you talking to no one, looking like a total mess. You try to pull yourself together, pretending nothing's happening. Maybe you’re just a little shaken. But that’s fine.

You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Ace?”

“You mad I went quiet?”

You cross your arms in the street, and a grunt escapes. A small child asks her mother if your mad or constipated.

He laughs.

“No worries,, babe, no hard feelings.” And there it is. That smug edge creeping back into his voice.

Your desire to punch him returns in full force.

And you can hear the grin before he says the next words.

“Bet you missed me though.”

You can feel your eye twitching. This asshole. He's already won. Again.

“You’re impossible.”

“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. I missed you too.”

You take a deep breath and hold back the mental floodgates.

You try to ignore the fact that your heartbeat’s a little faster than normal, that you’re fighting the urge to scream because you know what's coming.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And it makes you want to throw your wallet at the wall and hope a racoon doesn’t scurry off with it.

Then his next words drop like a bomb.

“You know," he continues, voice oozing with smugness, "I was just busy, sweetheart. You know, tracking you. No big deal.”

You freeze. Your blood runs cold.

Your brain short-circuits.

Tracking you.

The reality hit you like a freight train, its weight crashing into your chest. You hadn’t just let him know where you were with that stupid, careless mental slip—he’d been actively following your every move for a month. The very thought felt like you’d been exposed in ways you couldn’t possibly come back from.

The worst part? You couldn't even fight it. You knew exactly what he meant. You knew. The heat of his gaze, the way his presence lingered like a shadow over your thoughts. It was all too familiar, too dangerous.

And it felt mortifying.

You’d been trying to escape him, trying to block him out, yet all it took was a single slip-up—an image, a mental breadcrumb—and he was back, right where he wanted to be.

Without even realizing it, you screamed inside your head, “YOU'RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH.”

The laugh that followed reverberated through your mind, deep and smooth, like it had always belonged there.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

And then—you felt it before you saw him.

A heat, a wave that crashed against your skin like a sudden fever. The air seemed to shift. A flicker of danger, like lightning before the storm. It was that hurricane’s grin, that sun-warmed sin, wrapping itself around you like an invisible tether. You didn’t know whether to run or stay, but somehow, your feet were rooted to the ground.

And then—

“Hey.”

You looked up, and the world seemed to pause.

There he was. Portgas D. Ace.

Tall. Sun-kissed skin that looked like it had been burned by more than just the sun. His shirt was partially undone, revealing just enough of his chest to make your heart skip a beat. It looked like a war crime in the making.

And somehow, somehow, he was even hotter in person.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, mouth half-open, like a cat caught peeing on the rug. Was this real? Were you really standing in front of him, the man who had haunted your thoughts for weeks, months? You tried to form a sentence, tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless, “...You... You’re real?”

That smirk. That all-knowing, impossibly smug smirk. He tilts his head.

“You gonna say hi? Or just keep pretending you didn’t hurt your own feelings more when you’re trying to hurt mine?”

Your brain short-circuits.

You attempt something vaguely resembling a sentence, but it comes out more like, “What the hell are you—how did you even—this is illegal.”

He just smiles, all teeth and smugness.

“Soulmates, baby. And that pretty distinctive mental image you flung at me like a broom. Shimotsuki Market. Very unique. Very trackable.”

You’re about to hurl something—anything—at him, so you grab your wallet off your hip and throw it at him. It's a reflex, a desperate attempt to do something other than stand there like a dumbfounded idiot.

He catches it effortlessly. Not even a flinch. Not a hint of struggle. Just that damn smile, like he’s deeply pleased with himself, and unfortunately, his smugness is also hot.

You try to walk past him, determined to regain some semblance of control. But of course, he steps right in front of you, blocking your path without a second thought.

“You ghosted me for years, babe. Years. I didn’t even know if you had a face. Now you do. And it’s a really cute one. So. Hi.”

You freeze. The air between you crackles with tension. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you don’t.

You can’t. Not when he’s standing there, blocking the way out, with that impossible grin plastered on his face like he owns the world—and, apparently, your mind.

You want to hit him. Yell at him. But all you can manage is a shaky exhale, your pulse racing, your chest tight. You turn on your heel, desperate to escape, speedwalking back to some semblance of sanity. You shove past him, making it look like you’re in control.

“Rude,” he mutters, his voice laced with amusement. “But hot.”

You keep walking, determined. You’re going to get out of here. But of course, he follows.

“You’ve got a cute limp when you’re mad. Did you know that? We should talk. Or fight. Or make out. Up to you.”

Your hands ball into fists. But you don’t stop. You duck into the alley behind the shop, hoping the cramped space might give you an edge.

He follows you like a cursed Disney prince with a death wish. You whirl around, practically snarling.

“What do you want?”

He stops. The grin fades, just a little. He shrugs, casual, like he hasn’t just been stalking you for a month. But it’s not casual. It’s like he’s pulling back a little, trying to act nonchalant while wearing a smug look that says everything.

“I want you,” he says, his voice lowering. “I want to know your name. Your voice. What you actually sound like when you’re not yelling at me in your brain.”

For a split second—just one—you forget to be mad.

You forget you ever tried to run.

You’re staring at him now, and for a brief moment, there’s no anger, no desire to escape, just... him.

But then reality crashes back in.

And without thinking, you reach into your bag, grabbing the dried herbs you’ve been carrying for no particular reason, and hurl a handful straight at his face. You don’t even register what you’ve done until they’re in the air, the sharp scent of crushed rosemary and thyme filling the space between you.

You don’t wait to see the result. You sprint. Your legs move faster than your thoughts, driven by a primal instinct to get away.

Behind you, you hear him cough. Then, his laugh—rich and dark, echoing through the alleyway. “You really think you can outrun me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even slow down. You’re not scared; you're simply trying to outpace the impossible situation you've somehow found yourself in. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat louder than the last. But the truth weighs heavily on you: you know you can’t outrun him.

He laughs again. It’s a sound that rumbles through the air, low and confident, like he’s enjoying every second of this chase. “You’re gonna be so much fun.”

The words shoot through you like lightning, but you keep running, pushing your body faster, forcing yourself forward, through the winding streets, away from the port, desperate for a glimpse of safety.

But he’s already there, lurking just out of sight, like a shadow that follows no matter how fast you move.

You dodge down side alleys, weaving through crowds of strangers, your mind running through possible escape routes, trying to think ahead. You board random ships, desperate for anything that might carry you away from him. You even bribe a fruit vendor with a handful of coins, praying it’ll distract him long enough for you to catch your breath.

And still, Ace finds you.

You dart into a nunnery, desperate for sanctuary, the heavy wooden doors slamming behind you like a barricade. You take a moment to collect yourself—twelve minutes, exactly, to hide in the silence. But when you peek outside, the inevitable happens.

He’s standing at the nunnery’s threshold, his grin wide and unrepentant, as if he’s never been bothered by anything in his life. He looks like he’s enjoying this chase a little too much, like the mere fact that he’s found you is some twisted game he’s winning. The game where you run, and he—always—follows.

You round a corner in a port city two islands later and hear it.

“You run real pretty, sweetheart.”

You freeze, your feet stumbling over one another. Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel like a punch to the gut, the sound of them lingering in your bones. You try to move, but your body betrays you. You trip over your own foot, slamming into a nearby barrel to catch yourself.

Then you spin around.

And there he is.

Ace. Leaning against a post, relaxed, shirt half-open like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His sun-kissed skin glows in the warmth of the midday sun, freckles scattered across his chest like stars in a dark sky. The sunlight seems to conspire against you, highlighting every inch of him, making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s effortlessly cool—effortlessly here.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t need to. He just stands there, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, looking at you like he’s already won.

“Tired yet?” he asks, his voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

You throw a rock at him. It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He dodges it with ease, like he’s seen it coming a mile away. His smile only grows wider, smug and victorious. “Not even a little.”

Your pulse is thrumming in your ears, your muscles aching from the running, but you don’t stop. You take off again, sprinting into the bustling marketplace. The vibrant colors of the stalls blur past you as you run faster, heart hammering against your ribs.

But he’s still right there.

He follows you, but it’s different now. He’s not rushing. He’s moving with the casual grace of a predator, strolling through the crowd like he owns it. His eyes never leave you, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a brand, marking you as his.

And then the worst part happens.

The locals start noticing. They cheer, like they’re watching a game, their eyes tracking the two of you with growing excitement.

One woman shouts, “GET HER, PIRATE BOY!”

You wince, a knot tightening in your stomach as the crowd roars in approval. You can’t outrun the attention now. It’s everywhere. The eyes of the city are on you, and in a moment of absurd clarity, you realize they’re rooting for him.

“Great,” you mutter, grinding your teeth together, the sound of your frustration mingling with the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

Ace grins wider, clearly relishing the bedlam he’s created. The man never stops. Never slows.

Then someone starts placing bets. On you.

Great. Just great.

You vault over a fruit stand, your legs pushing you forward in a burst of desperate energy. It’s not graceful, but you’re fast—too fast to think. You hear Ace whistle, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Nice form. You always this athletic or is it just when you’re running from your problems—me—specifically?”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, and duck into a tavern kitchen, praying the staff are too busy to notice your disheveled, panicked entrance. The staff barely blinks as you slip past them, already halfway through the back door when—

He appears again.

Now he’s casually eating an apple, like he wasn’t just doing parkour across balconies and dodging flying fruit. He takes a slow bite, watching you with that maddening, self-satisfied smile, as if nothing had happened.

He doesn’t grab you this time. He doesn’t need to.

He just traps you.

He’s standing too close. That smile—sinful, smug, all-consuming—is never far from his lips.

“You done?” he asks, his voice low, amused.

You glare up at him, your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse quickening with the weight of it all. “No.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that crawls up your spine like heat. "Good."

And then, the moment you’ve been dreading.

He leans in.

It’s slow. Intentional. His breath brushes against your cheek. He whispers, his voice sliding against your ear like a stolen secret.

“Keep running if you want. I don’t mind.”

You feel the weight of his words, pressing in like a warning.

“Chasing you’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

And then the sucker punch:

“But eventually… sweetheart, you’re gonna trip.”

You freeze. For a moment, your knees go weak, and your brain short-circuits, like someone’s cut the power to your mind. You’re standing there, so close to him, your body fighting against every urge to lean in, to finally give in to the pull.

You almost kiss him. Out of spite. Out of sheer frustration. Almost.

Instead, you throw a spoon right into his face. It clangs loudly against his cheek, and you make a break for it, leaping through the window with as much grace as you can muster.

“WORTH IT!” he yells behind you, his voice loud and triumphant as it echoes down the alley.

You run. Because you can’t stop. You won’t stop. Not until you’ve lost him for good.

But in the back of your mind, there’s something else. A tug. A pull. The taste of his words still lingering in your thoughts.

-CAUGHT-

By nightfall, he’s still following you. Somehow. Unbothered by your death glares, your total silence, or the fifteen attempts you made to accidentally lead him into thorn bushes. He compliments the flora. Bleeds cheerfully.

You’re huffing, exhausted and borderline panicked, your legs aching from the constant running. You can feel your nerves fraying, the last vestiges of your patience worn thin. You’ve been at this for hours, your mind screaming at you to find a way to lose him, but no. There he is. Ten steps behind, like some kind of relentless golden retriever on a leash, with that insufferable, charming grin plastered on his face.

Ace looks pristine. The dirt doesn’t seem to cling to him. His hair’s a little tousled, sure, but it’s still perfect. His skin glows in the low light, and you can practically see the smugness radiating off him, his eyes dancing like he’s having the time of his life.

“You’re picturing me naked again, huh?” he says, his voice like molten honey, lazy and confident. “That’s the third time today. Just say the word, babe, and I’ll come up shirtless and apologetic.”

You growl low in your throat, gritting your teeth as you quicken your pace. This is not happening.

“Oh no,” he whispers in your mind, his voice slipping through like silk, dangerously smooth. “Was that... foreplay?”

You did not just…

The rage inside you flares, hot and violent, and you snap, throwing a rock at him. It’s the first thing you can grab, and the action is pure, unrefined anger.

You watch it sail through the air, and you’re almost satisfied with the aim, the sound of it connecting with him. But then you realize something.

He let it hit him.

You stand there, frozen in place, while he groans from the dirt, propping himself up on one elbow, still grinning like a damn idiot. And you, for some unknown reason, feel terrible.

He’s laughing.

“You know,” he says, brushing the dust off his clothes like this is the most fun he’s ever had, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, babe. You’ve got a hell of a right hook. Still hot as fuck though.”

You say nothing. Your brain has blue-screened. You’re physically incapable of processing this absurdity, this entire situation that you’ve been dragged into.

“You’re—wow. You’re stunning. And you’re standing there. And you’re not yelling at me or hating me or vanishing into mist.”

Still nothing. Your dignity is buffering, on its last thread.He blinks, his smile widening even more, if that’s even possible.

“Unless you are mist. I did hit my head pretty hard. Are you mist?”

You force the words out, your throat feeling dry. “No. Just disappointed.”

His grin widens—widens. Like he’s won something.

“Oh, thank god. That sounds like you.”

You try. You really try to stay composed, but he stands up, all sun-kissed skin and scars, the epitome of absolute menace. You feel your soul leave your body with a little ‘whoosh’ noise. And then, like he’s really not going to let you have any peace, he pulls a small, slightly squished bouquet from his pocket.

“I brought flowers,” he says, holding them out to you with an innocent grin that makes you want to scream. “Sat on them a bit during the fall. But they’re yours. Please accept them and also my eternal devotion.”

You take the flowers. Your hands are trembling, and you hate it.

You hate that you’re standing here, accepting flowers from this ridiculous, insufferable man. But, God, you hate even more that he’s standing there looking like a golden retriever with a heart the size of the sun—hot, fire-punching, fate-cursed, sweet as hell.

And worst of all? You hate that you like it.

You hate that you might even like him. Because, unfortunately, he’s a cutie. A dumb, fire-punching, fate-cursed cutie. And you’re just so screwed.

You flee, again.

Not in the dramatic, cloak-flapping, “I shall vanish into the mist” way you always thought you’d flee your soulmate—no, it’s more like a dignified power walk with panicked footnotes. You grab your satchel, muttering something about needing air, and fast-walk directly into the woods, hoping that the isolation of nature might give you a temporary reprieve from the storm of chaotic thoughts in your head.

But you’re not prepared for the soft voice behind you.

“Want me to carry that?”

You stop in your tracks. You turn, and there he is, right there, as if he’d materialized from the very forest around you. His freckles glow in the dying light, shirt offensively open like he’s trying to challenge every ounce of your self-control. The flowers—crumpled and hopeless—are still in your hand. And the other is already reaching for your bag like this is just a casual joint grocery run, not a soul-rupturing disaster.

“No,” you say firmly, pulling the satchel closer to you like it contains the last remnants of your common sense.

“Right,” he nods, unfazed. “Emotional support bag. Got it.”

You start walking again, forcing yourself to keep your pace. Your legs carry you with a tension that suggests both urgency and defeat.

And, of course, he walks beside you. Casually. Like this is just another walk in the park, like he hasn’t just smashed through a tree, declared eternal devotion, and handed you mashed flowers. Like this is his first time seeing your face, even though it feels like the most significant moment of your life.

He hums, lazily surveying the woods around you. “Nice woods. Quiet. Great for internal screaming.”

You grit your teeth, trying to ignore him, but the temptation to throw him off the trail and let your frustration explode is too great.

“You should leave,” you say, half as a request, half as a warning.

“I know,” he responds, too casually. “But I won’t.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “That’s called stalking.”

“That’s called fate,” he replies, totally unbothered. “Also, I’m very polite about it.”

You open your mouth, about to argue, when he cuts you off, adding with a teasing smirk, “I brought snacks.”

You close your mouth, your will to argue draining out of you like sand through your fingers.

The two of you walk in silence, the tension thick but oddly comfortable, until you finally reach your small cabin. You stop, spin around, and give him a dramatic flourish meant to intimidate—one last attempt at asserting some control.

“You are not staying here.”

“I accept your terms,” he says, already ducking through the doorway as though it’s his place now. “Great porch. Would die here.”

He pauses, looks at you, and for a split second, the smug grin fades. His expression softens, just a touch.

“Not that I’m planning to,” he adds, and something about the sincerity behind those words makes your chest ache.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling like you're losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Because no matter how many times you tell him to leave, every inch of him belongs here.

-Emotional Turning Point-

He fits himself into your life like he was always meant to be your super handsome supporting male lead, living on the fringes of your porch and decency.

You’re not sure how he does it; how Ace, with all his chaos and charm, has somehow managed to worm his way into your routine, making himself right at home without even trying. But there he is, lounging in that damn chair by your door, making himself part of your world with a grin that says he’s here to stay. He’s everywhere. Leaning in the doorway, poking his head through the window, eating snacks with that infuriatingly content grin on his face.

It’s not that you invited him in. Not really. But it’s almost like he was always meant to be a part of this life, somehow. You can’t get rid of him, and—goddammit—you don’t want to.

Every time you try to get some peace, there he is, leaning casually against the doorframe with an offhand comment that somehow worms its way under your skin. He feels like your life now, like some permanent addition, wrapped in the scent of summer and smoke, never asking for permission, always managing to make you feel like you’re the one who’s been missing something.

And it drives you crazy. But not the bad kind of crazy. The kind where you’re frustrated because you don’t want to admit you like this new reality.

He's also so kind. So genuinely good in a way that makes you want to rip your own heart out for how much you’re falling for it. He doesn’t just show up with a smug grin and a million dumb comments. Though, hell, he does plenty of that too, but there’s something in the way he’s just… there.

The way he notices the little things. The way he makes sure you’ve eaten, even when you try to hide it. The way he doesn’t just barge in but waits for you to ask, like he knows when to push and when to let you breathe. And the most infuriating part? He does it without expecting anything in return. He’s not keeping score. He’s not holding anything over your head. He just… cares.

Which is how, eventually, you find yourself giving in. You tell yourself it’s because there’s no other place for him to sleep. He can’t keep taking the porch chair, it’s too awkward. You tell yourself it’s because he’s not that bad, right? He’s harmless, right? Maybe having him in the guest room won’t be so terrible.

But you know the truth. You know you’ve softened. You’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re frustrated, the way he listens without interrupting. You’ve caught him quietly fixing the little things you forget; your broken door lock, the pile of laundry you’ve been meaning to fold. And you’ve realized, with a sickening sense of vulnerability, that you’ve let him in.

The guest room? That was just the final step. You’re a pathetic push-over, no denying it.

Because now he’s there. In your home. In your life. Not just as the irritating golden retriever you thought he was, but as the person who somehow made himself indispensable.

You snort, unable to hold back the laughter, the absurdity of it all finally catching up with you.

Ace beams beside you, that ever-present, infectious smile stretching across his face as if he’s just made the greatest revelation of all time. The night settles into a quiet rhythm, the tension from the past moments fading as he settles himself into your life like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Ace?

Ace stays.

He stays in the most inconvenient, inconveniently endearing way possible. His presence weaving itself into the fabric of your day like a persistent, sun-warmed thread that refuses to be untangled. No matter how much you try to brush him off, he’s there, in the most Ace way imaginable: full of warmth, full of disarray, full of ridiculousness.

And then, of course, he decides to hit you with it.

He tells you who his father is exactly one week after deciding not to die for vengeance and two days after setting your entire pantry on fire trying to toast bread with his hands. You’re crouched by the pantry door, diligently trying to patch up the mess he’s made, when he flops down beside you with that same blissful grin, the one that promises you’ll never know a moment’s peace.

“By the way,” he says, his voice smooth and casual, “my dad was the Pirate King.”

You freeze.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you slowly lower the patching materials, every muscle in your body tensing in complete shock.

The pause feels like an eternity.

Then, ever so slowly, you turn your head to face him. He’s still looking at you like he’s dropped a bombshell, waiting for the reaction. You blink once. Twice. And then, to his evident surprise, you simply say, “Okay.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, your voice steady, your expression a carefully controlled mask. “Okay.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something else, but then he hesitates. “Like… you don’t care?”

You take a deep breath, trying to recalibrate your thoughts. “Do you steal children?” you ask, your voice flat, as though that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

“No,” he answers, confused but amused.

“Do you bring Marines to my door?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, feeling the tension in your chest finally begin to loosen. “Then I don’t care if you’re the son of the Pirate King, a dragon, or the sea itself with legs. Just stop bathing in front of me.”

Ace makes a sound, like a duck being struck by lightning, eyes widening with exaggerated innocence. “That was ONE TIME.”

“It was yesterday.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

“You were singing.” You throw a wet cloth at his face without even looking at him, too tired to care about how ridiculous this is. “Also,” you add, as you wipe off the dust from your hands, “you have a birthmark. Not that I meant to see it. But it exists. And it is shaped like a banana.”

“OH MY GOD.”

He screams into the rag, the sound muffled and exaggerated, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

You keep working, the soft smile on your lips betraying the amusement you’re trying so hard to hide. You do care.

You care about the way he burns toast but guards your garden like it’s a castle. The way he talks in his sleep, thinking no one can hear him, and makes enough food for two even when you insist you’re fine on your own. The way he tried to give you his favorite dagger like it was a friendship bracelet—like you were meant to have it.

But you don’t care who his father is.

That man is dead.

Ace is alive.

And in the end, it doesn’t matter who his bloodline is. What matters is the idiot sitting beside you, grinning like he’s won the lottery and setting fire to his shirt trying to impress you by flexing in the sun. The one who, despite all the madness, somehow makes you feel like this chaotic, unexpected life is exactly what you need.

You might be losing the battle, but you’re definitely winning the war.

Ace knew he didn’t have a chance the first time he heard you spoke, and frankly, he’s never been one to deny fate.

Ace is the kind of guy who falls fast, and hard. And over simple things. It’s not a grand speech that changes him. Not a fight, not a dramatic stand in the rain, not a desperate plea to spare himself.

It’s something much worse.

You do absolutely nothing.

You make tea. You sweep the porch. You hang up wet laundry with that same quiet, suspicious side-eye you’ve been giving him since he crash-landed into your life like a shirtless meteor of emotional disorder. You don’t flirt. You don’t cry. You don’t tell him not to go. You just exist.

Like you’ve done for years, on the edge of war and wonder. Quiet. Clever. Alive.

And Ace?

He shatters.

Because now that he’s here, now that he knows your smile in real time and not just as a phantom curl behind his thoughts, now that he knows how you brew tea when you're nervous and fake a snort-laugh when you're amused and sleep with one hand under your pillow like you're still ready to flee.

He realizes something awful.

He doesn’t want to die anymore.

And if he goes after Blackbeard alone, that’s exactly what will happen.

So one night, while you’re bent over your little garden, muttering at a weed like it owes you money, he sits on the porch with his legs dangling over the side. The moon makes him look soft. Barefoot. Real.

He says, casually, like it’s nothing:

“I’m not gonna go.”

You don’t look up. Your hands are busy, pulling the stubborn weed from the soil, but you can feel the weight of his words like a distant thunderclap.

“Go where?”

“After Teach. Not alone.” He scratches at his hair, a rare softness in his voice. “I was gonna. I thought I had to. But then you made soup. And yelled at the laundry. And looked at me like I was a half-cracked egg someone left in the sun too long.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of an immediate response. You just finish pulling the weed from the ground and set it aside, carefully, as if there’s a cosmic balance you don’t want to disturb.

“That was not a look of affection,” you say dryly, still not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he grins, that damn grin that always makes your chest tighten. “But it made me realize I want to come back. I want someone to come back to.”

You stare at him now. Really stare.

And you see it.

Portgas D. Ace, fire-fist terror of the seas, Whitebeard’s reckless son, walking natural disaster.

He’s sitting still. And choosing to just live.

For himself. For his crew. And, impossibly, for you.

“I told Marco,” he says, quieter now, his voice almost unrecognizable with the vulnerability slipping through. “Let someone else bring him in. Or all of us. I’m not rushing into a trap because I want to feel like I deserve punishment. I don’t want to prove anything anymore.”

You blink. His words hit you like a wave, but the truth of it doesn't settle immediately.

“So you’re just... not dying?” You ask, the question slipping out without meaning to.

“Apparently,” he shrugs, still with that casual bravado he carries around like armor. “Real inconvenient. I’d emotionally prepped for a tragic death arc.”

You finally meet his eyes, watching as his smile falters just a little, just enough to let you see the weight he’s been carrying. And you realize, in that moment, you’re no longer looking at the man who sought death to prove something. You’re looking at a man who finally decided that maybe he deserves to live.

For the first time, Ace isn’t running. He isn’t running from his past, from his fate, or from the bedlam inside him.

He’s sitting still.

And that, in its own way, is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The silence between you is more than enough.

And as he sits there, beside you, in the quiet of your little garden and under the soft glow of the moon, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that Ace has made his choice.

He’s not dying for the sake of others anymore. Not for revenge, not for the memory of his father, not for any grand ideal.

He’s living. For himself. And, maybe, just maybe... for you too.

And for the first time, it feels like the weight of it all. His choices, his fate, the chaotic spiral he’s been trapped in has shifted. It’s lighter now, and somehow, so are you.

-The Climax-

The thing about being in love—actually in love—and having a soulmate who shares not just their heart, but their food, their dreams, and their increasingly unhinged commentary on everything from ocean weather to crab mating habits, is that eventually… you just give in.

You commit to the idea.

Not quietly. Not with grace. But with a dramatic, full-body sigh, hands thrown to the heavens like, “Fine, FINE, I guess I’ll be in love with you, you ridiculous golden retriever of a man.”

And that would be fine.

If he wasn’t so good at making you mad.

It starts innocently, as it always does, with Ace just being himself. Fixing broken stuff around your ship cabin without being asked. Replacing your rickety chair with one he definitely stole from somewhere nicer. Quietly fixing your shoes with leftover leather scraps. Roasting fish at sunrise and pretending it’s not for you, even though he offers the best cuts.

Which would be sweet. If he didn’t leer when you thanked him. If he didn’t lean in like, “See? You’d miss me if I died.”

Or worse.

“You like me.”

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

You do like him.

You like the way he absentmindedly hums when the sea is calm. The way he throws himself between danger and his crew without hesitation. The way he frowns when your hands are cold and warms them between his palms without comment. The way he talks about you to others, thinking you’ll never hear.

(You always hear. The bond makes sure of it.)

So when he saunters up, shirt undone, grin weaponized, holding a handmade seashell hairpin like he didn’t just crawl out of the ocean like a romantic cryptid, you lose it. He’s always is taller than you realize, and broader too. All sun-kissed skin, tousled black hair, freckles like spilled sugar, and that damn grin—lazy, lethal, and soaked in the smug knowledge that he’s been living in your head rent-free for years.

You get mad.

Not annoyed. Not flustered.

Mad.

That soul-warming, spine-tingling, irrational kind of fury that only one person in the world can summon from the depths of you just by existing.

Because how dare he.

How dare he worm his way into your life with that lazy grin and those too-soft glances when he thinks you’re not looking. How dare he make your heart thunder like a war drum just by standing there, shirt half-buttoned, freckles glowing like sin under the sun. How dare he know—know—how to soothe your anger and ignite it in the same breath.

And that’s when it happens.

That sharp inhale. That white-hot glare. That moment of eye contact held just a second too long.

He tilts his head. Smirks. You see it in his eyes; the gleam, the silent countdown to disaster. You know that look. That’s the look that means he's about to say something so stupidly hot it could derail your life and you'd still thank him for the wreckage.

You take a step back, instinctively.

He steps forward, all loose limbs and barely restrained heat, the picture of someone who’s already won.

“Run,” he says, voice all honey and heat, “and I’ll catch you.”

You snap.

You lunge. Not for anything romantic—no. For a punch. A real one. Right to that smug, pretty face.

You miss.

He doesn’t.

He catches your wrist like he was waiting for it, like he dreamed of this moment. His fingers curl around yours, warm and unshakable. You meet his gaze, ready to spit fire.

But he beats you to it.

“You’re everything,” he breathes, low and cracked. Like it hurts. Like it’s truth against his ribs. “Oh no. I’m so in love with you. I’m gonna ruin everything.”

You should run.

But your knees betray you, turning soft and stupid like seafoam on a summer shore. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears, drowning out every sensible thought. And then—oh gods—he leans in, close enough for you to smell salt and smoke, and his fingers thread through your hair. He murmurs something too dirty for daylight, and that’s it.

You’re gone.

“Five minutes,” you rasp, voice ragged with want and fury. “That’s all you get. Bring the fire or shut up.”

What follows is not logical. Or polite.

The next thing you know, you’re in his lap, breathless and burning, yelling, “This is your fault!” while your hands twist in his hair like you’re trying to strangle the ocean. And he’s laughing—laughing—like he just robbed the world blind and left the moon as payment.

“This is a mistake,” you growl.

He grins, eyes glittering like treasure. “Then let’s make it twice.” It starts with sass. Sharp words. Quicker hands. Your teeth graze his jaw. His lips find your pulse. Buttons scatter.

But it escalates the second you grab a fistful of his hair and hiss, “I swear to god, if you laugh—”

And then, he moans.

You both freeze.

The silence is electric.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Your hand twitches, about to retreat.

He growls. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

“Oh,” he says, voice wrecked with sudden hunger. “Oh, we’re doing this now.”

He leans in. Breath warm against your ear.

“You like pulling hair? That’s cute.” His grin splits wide.“I like begging. Guess we’re both gonna be real happy tonight.”

What follows is a blur of limbs, heat, curses, and catastrophic choices. The kind of night you survive by setting fire to every good intention and riding the wreckage down together.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a surrender, a choice. And gods help you, he kisses like he thinks you belong to him. Because you do.

Clothes come off. Fast. Probably ruined. You don’t care.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a confession, a final surrender. Like you’ve been holding back the tide of him for years and now—now, finally—you’re letting it pull you under.

And gods help you, he kisses like a man who already knows.

Knows your mouth. Knows your breath. Knows the exact way you melt when someone touches you like a secret instead of a prize.

He tastes like heat and salt and promise. His hands are already on you; hot, greedy, reverent. Calloused palms splaying across your back like he's checking you’re real.

Clothes come off in flashes. Fast. Desperate. Buttons pop. A seam tears. His shirt gets tossed somewhere near the door and yours doesn’t survive the landing. He kisses the swell of your chest with something close to awe and mutters something that makes your toes curl.

You don’t care about the bed. You barely register hitting it. You only notice him, solid and searing and all over you.

Ace doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess. Every touch is sure. Every sigh you give him maps a path he already seems to know by heart.

And then he really starts.

And you forget how to breathe.

His stamina is, frankly, criminal. You lose track of time. Of position. Of your own name. You understand why other pirates don’t attack him without backup.

At one point, you're clutching at the sheets like they might save you. At another, you're biting his shoulder because apparently you’ve lost the capacity for language. Everything is hot and blurred and so good you could cry. You consider it. Then he bites your ear and you do.

You finally gasp, half-laughing, half-accusing: “Okay—okay, what the hell. You’ve done this before.”

He just grins, stupid and perfect and way too pleased with himself. “Nope,” he says, rolling his hips slow and smug, “I’ve just had years of theoretical training.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...What?”

“On you, sweetheart.” He leans down, mouth against your throat. “You think I haven’t been preparing? Please. I’ve studied. I’ve visualized. I had flashcards.”

Your brain misfires. Your body, meanwhile, is betraying you entirely.

“I hate you,” you whisper hoarsely.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth dragging over your shoulder like a satisfied wolf. “Sure you do. Hate me with your thighs again.”

By the time your soul returns from orbit, you’re sprawled across the mattress like a saint mid-apocalypse. Your body feels like it’s been lovingly struck by lightning. Repeatedly. You manage a weak sound. He’s already draping a blanket over you with far too much tenderness for a man who just detonated your nervous system.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

Or black out.

Probably both

You wake up warm. Sated. And very, very naked in his arms.

You stretch, blink blearily, then pause.

Something’s wrong.

You are on a ship. The ship is moving.

You sit up too fast and nearly topple over. Ace hums behind you, still half-asleep. “Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“…Was this five minutes?” you croak.

He yawns, kisses your shoulder. “Nah. Five was just to start.”

You scramble to sit up, fully panicking now, but he tugs you back down with one strong arm and starts kissing your neck like it’s not an international crime that you are being lovingly detained.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You blink. “Am I… kidnapped?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Let’s call it an extended honeymoon. With, like, minor hostage vibes.”

You hiss. He kisses your jaw. You slap his chest. He grins. You try to stay mad. You do.

But when he pulls you into his arms again, presses his forehead to yours and murmurs in your ear.

“We’re gonna make such a good team.”

Cue full body shiver shutdown.

You stop trying.

And somehow?

You don’t even want to escape.

-Honeymoon-

Cosmic Joke Status: Flambéed

You’re now stuck with a flammable himbo who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% commit arson for you just because someone looked at you funny.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like it.

(Especially the part where he growls at people who flirt with you, like a very polite junkyard dog with abs.)

#gav story #one piece #romance #fire fist ace #ace x reader #ace x you #portgas d ace #soulmate #cosmic joke #one piece au #soulmate au

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